Gerard shielded his eyes to get a better look at his surroundings.

He and Burton had just arrived to take in the view of the city Intelligence had directed them to. They had just left their ship at a municipality helipad and were now standing in a residential neighborhood, on top of one of the hills that surrounded the city. They gazed in awe at the houses and people in the suburbs. This was a medium”sized, friendly city; a lakeside town that relied heavily on its fishing industry and had a reputation for its urban life. There was a large, long, flat mountain behind the city and others along its border, and thanks to them, the winds were usually gentle and pleasant. Where they were, the buildings were small and modern, with large gardens and urban orchards scattered here and there.

People hardly noticed them now that they were clean, combed, and well dressed. They had stepped off the heliplane with the bundle of clothes and gone straight to a hotel. Half an hour of intense activity and they were ready to be just a couple of researchers.

Mr. Brun lived downtown, where he worked at a regional cultural center.

A ride in a scenic blimp brought them to the site in minutes, and they began walking through the city's colorful high streets.

The city downtown was more industrialized than the suburbs, but it still had that feeling of pleasant tranquility. The buildings on the street were all two, three, and rarely four stories high, lined up neatly with no gardens or alleys between them. Almost all of them had a shop on the ground floor, and there was not a single chain store on the entire street. The vast majority of them had gabled roofs, rectangular windows in each room, and an attic. In front of them were a few wider buildings, similar in style but newer, no more than six stories: offices, apartments, shops, etc. They knew that at about the same time as the War of the Line, Europe had been dealing with its own conflicts, and although Scandinavia had always been out of focus, they had not been able to avoid the damage. The historic downtown of Hemmelig, for example, had suffered the destruction of several city blocks by a paramilitary organization. They threw homemade rockets everywhere, in retaliation for not ceding certain areas of their jurisdiction to small communities that tried to govern themselves as a gang governs itself. Of course, all they got after the attack was to end up dead or behind bars.

Burton looked down at his communicator: according to the GPS, the regional cultural center was already a few blocks away.

The building took up most of the block, housing workshops, a theater, and a small history and arts and crafts museum. Its design, at least from the outside, did not stand out from the other buildings in the area. It had a flat roof and was made entirely of concrete, blue”gray with white on the window and door frames. A small gold plaque in front of the main entrance was all that announced what was inside.

Burton saw their reflections in the nearest window—they weren't so bad, were they? Gerard wore black cotton pants, a white shirt and a thick dark blue blazer jacket. He, on the other hand, was less committed to fanciness and wore navy blue jeans, a gray shirt and a burgundy sweater. Not that there was much to choose from. Cam had packed very few clothes and there were only a few boring things left. His short, dark hair, on the other hand, was perfect. What a little hairspray can do. His hair was always slicked back, but now it presented an attractive curve over his forehead.

As soon as they entered, they looked for the information desk. There, a couple of robots circled the place, announcing events and inviting people. They were given the location of Brun's office without a problem, since the man, like his other colleagues at the center, had frequent visitors. His office was near the main entrance to the museum, on the ground floor.

The wide, brightly lit main corridor was busy, mostly with workshop students and museum visitors. Had they not been in such a hurry, they could have stood and watched the people rushing about with such energy. You could almost breathe in the creativity that was bubbling in the air.

They walked for a while until they came to a long corridor with walls covered in white slate and lined with mahogany doors. They all had a nameplate with the name of their assigned user, and Mr. Brun's was the last one on the right before reaching the museum section.

According to the robots, he knew a few languages and might be able to communicate with them in English. Anyway, the PCCs had a built”in language translator. They had taken a separate small microphone with them, as the one on the PCC might not be accurate enough.

They knocked on the door a few times. They were answered from the other side: “Kom inn”. The translator indicated that it meant go ahead, so Gerard turned the knob and opened the door.

The man was sitting behind a sleek, modern blue steel desk, keeping a close eye on what was being displayed on three huge screens. He looked behind them and greeted them politely in Norwegian. He still looked very much like the man in the photograph, with different glasses and graying hair, but his gaze was the same, confident and inquisitive. He was wearing a white shirt and a tan coat. A blue coat was hanging on a coat rack in the corner.

“Hva kan jeg gjøre for dere?” he asked politely. The translation was what can I do for you?

Brun listened to the device Gerard wore on his wrist. Burton said something to him and the PCC returned the greeting in Norwegian. He understood what was going on.

“You speak English, gentlemen,” he said effortlessly. His accent was strong, like that of a German.

“Yes, Mr. Brun,” Gerard replied. “Unfortunately, we don't know your language, but we have been informed that you know ours… Would you mind if we spoke English?”

“I don't… I haven't practiced for a long time,” he smiled. “I'll do my best.”

“Thank you. My name is Gerard Wilker and this is my associate Buck Burton. You see, we're in the middle of an investigation and we're kind of stuck. You, as a historian who is well-versed in Norwegian history and culture, may have the answers we're looking for… And I'd like to apologize in advance for not letting you know sooner that we were coming.” He glanced sideways at the pile of documents on the desk. “Are you very busy?”

“Yes. I have some documents to go through. What is it that you are researching?”

“Certain legends and their relationship to, uh, real events and people; interpretations, related art.”

“Legends? What legends?” He cleared his throat. “If what you need from me it is going to take more than, say, half an hour, you're going to have to make an appointment in my schedule. I hope you understand.”

Burton fidgeted and almost opened his mouth. Gerard tapped him on the shoulder, just one finger.

“It involves a relatively recent legend about three mysterious creatures who lived on a mountain. This ‘Caliginous Mountain’ is identified with the real Oelfjellet.”

Brun lowered his eyes and interlaced his fingers, trying to concentrate.

“Oelfjellet, Nordland?”

They both nodded.

“It is a very interesting place if you study the local legends. You mentioned three creatures, didn't you? I'm sure it's the Legend of the Three Gods.”

Burton finally joined the conversation, as quietly as he could.

“Yes! Surely that's the one.”

Why, and I thought you were mute, sir” he laughed. “So, this is the legend you're researching? It comes from various local accounts from the late twentieth century. And the geographic core of the story is this mountain and its surroundings. Broadly speaking, the legend tells of three creatures that lived on the Caliginous Mountain, sometimes benevolent, sometimes hostile—Phoenix, Dragon and Chimera. The Phoenix was the least harmful of the three and made friends with the communities of the region, the Sami and the Scandinavians. The other two, Dragon and Chimera, of which the first is described as very ambitious and terrible, and the second as violent and impulsive. But I suppose you already know all this, don't you? Naturally! I don't want to repeat what you already know. Are you sure you don't want me to schedule an appointment? You could tell me about it at your leisure…”

“I'm afraid that won't be possible,” Gerard replied without pausing. He reached into his jacket. “No offense, but we won't have time later. This… This is what we know, what this book contains: Robsonian Chronicles. Do you know it?”

Brun's eyes widened.

“I know this book: most of what I know about this particular legend comes from its pages. If you have already read the book, there is little I can add. Among other things, I know that the book was compiled and partially written by Donella Robson, a contemporary of the alleged events recounted and explained in the book.” He grabbed the book and opened the cover. “That's unofficial, of course. The book comes anonymously, without an official name.”

“And how do you know that she is the author of the book?”

“Because to this day a family keeps a lot of notes and documents on the subject, the Wines. There was a time when I visited them, about twenty years ago. They offered to sell me some of these documents, and that's how I learned that these people were related to the mysterious Robson Society that appears in the book. Before Mrs. Marie Wine, the heiress to this legacy, died, she let me know that her ancestor Donella Robson had been the real brain behind the book, but that much of it had originally been written by other hands, including her father, Thomas Robson.”

He slowly rose from his chair and fetched a glass of water from a small table in the corner.

“Would you like some?”

They both shook their heads and thanked him.

“You finished the book, didn't you?” Burton whispered, taking advantage of the historian's distraction. “He says he doesn't know much more than what's in it.”

“I made quite a bit of progress on our trip from Alamogordo. But I'm not quite finished. And I'm afraid the final word on Chimera is what we already know, that she went up the mountain and was never seen again.”

“Hey Gerard, if the Wine have all those documents, I'm sure they know more than this man.”

He shook his head.

“Remember what the agent told us in the morning when she gave the report to Cam?”

“Hmm?”

“He quoted a note from Art saying that the Wines barely knew what was in those documents.”

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

“Oh… True,” he recalled with some embarrassment. “But we could borrow them, couldn't we?”

“That might be difficult, young colleague,” Brun sat down again. “I'm sorry if I wasn't supposed to hear that, but I couldn't help it.”

“It's all right, sir,” Gerard assured him. “Don't you think we can persuade them to lend us their documents?”

“Even though they don't really care what they say, they guard them with zeal. I suppose they have some vague idea of their value, whether cultural or monetary. The few documents they were willing to sell me spoke only of Mrs. Donella, nothing about the legends themselves.”

“Perhaps if they could understand the caliber of our research, they would consider it.”

“So, you're going to visit them anyway, huh?”

“It seems so, if we can get the necessary permission. This… You know how it is with the management of research resources.”

“It's a slow business,” he nodded. “Are you going to tell me who you work for?”

“For an American cultural publisher—nothing special.”

Brun glanced at his wristwatch (yes, one of the mechanical ones). Time was running out, and he seemed preoccupied with something else.

He opened the top right-hand drawer of his desk and took out an old electronic assistant—something like a flat cone with a built-in projector—and turned it on. He asked something in Norwegian, and the small machine displayed the requested information.

“This is the last address I have for Paul Wine, the eldest of Marie Wine's children. And this is his phone number and e-mail address. Maybe this information has changed since I needed it, years and years ago.”

“We'll do some research to make sure it's still accurate, Mr. Brun. We appreciate it…” He copied the information to his PCC. “I know our time is over, so we should leave, and let you get on with your business.”

“Yes,” Burton put his hands behind his back, “thank you very much!”

“You're welcome,” Brun had already picked up his pile of documents. “Let me know how the research went when you're done, okay? And don't forget to include me. I'd like to catch up if there's anything new to find out!”

“I will do that,” Gerard promised. “Thank you for your time.”

“Good luck with your research, gentlemen.”

The historian looked at them kindly until they closed his office door, and he could continue reading his screens.

***

Back on the mountain, all that searching was beginning to bore Cam. He had already managed to skip two pairs of uninteresting caves and was on his way to the fifth. All the while he had been thinking about what he was supposed to be looking for in there. Usually, when one starts something new with expectations, one loses sight of many important, necessary details. And maybe he missed some of those details.

He sat down to rest on the threshold of his next cave. He looked up at the sky, lightly dotted with pure white clouds, and was almost certain that it was warmer than the day before.

His communicator started to vibrate. He answered the call without taking his eyes off the blue extension; Frances probably wanted to talk to him about another strange critter she had encountered.

“This is Captain Cam,” he identified himself after he managed to focus enough to answer.

“Cam, it's Gerard. I need to fill you in on what we've found out here.”

Excellent, finally some progress!

“Hey! I was wondering when you'd call. Burton! How was the city?”

“Um.” His voice sounded a little farther away than Gerard's. They weren't wearing headsets, so they used the loudspeaker. “Very quaint and colorful. I like it… Cam, we should talk about Hemmelig later. It's just that we need your permission to visit the Robsons, I mean, the Wines!”

“What? The Robsons?” he asked in surprise, “What happened to our historian?”

“Mr. Brun doesn't know much more than we do at this point, Cam,” Gerard continued. “But he did point out that the Robsons have a lot of useful documents.”

“Oh. How disappointing,” he snorted. “The Wines are supposed to know next to nothing about what's in their family papers. You'd have to study them yourself.”

“And that's if we're allowed access,” he sighed resigned. “But what other choice is there? It's the best lead we have if we want to find out exactly how to find Chimera. Unless you or Frances have come up with something?”

“No, no,” Cam rested his left arm on his leg. “Well, aside from the very interesting local wildlife. I think she's already changed her objective,” he chuckled.

“Then can we proceed?”

“Do you know where to go?”

“Yes. Brun gave us his address and we've just called Intelligence to check the data they have on the Robsons. The family home is still occupied by one of Mrs. Wine's sons, his wife and daughter.”

“And where is that?”

The communicator was silent for a moment. Cam raised an eyebrow in recognition—he could already guess what it meant.

“Well… Glasgow, Scotland.”

Yes, he knew it had to be far away. Oh, all right. It could have been worse, he could have said Sydney, Australia, or something even more annoying like Cinia or Kennéh.

“So, you and Burton want to go to Scotland to study the Robson family documents without knowing if they'll even allow it. Is that correct?”

“Jeez,” replied Burton. “When you put it that way, it sounds like it will take forever.”

“But it doesn't have to, Cam. Look, the records that Intelligence got indicate that the daughter is in college studying European history. So, there's a chance she might know these documents or at least understand why we need them and let us study them.”

“And we have their phone number. We'll call them ahead of time to let them know we're coming, so we'll know how to deal with them when we get there.”

Cam put aside his disbelief and answered them very seriously.

“Are you sure this is worth our time?”

“We will find those documents and study them,” Gerard assured him, “even if we have to do it without the consent of their owners… Our duty is worth it, the safety of our home is.”

“Yes… Better to try all possibilities than to hope to find Chimera by chance under a rock. All right, guys, you have my permission to look for the Wine. And remember time is of the essence.”

As soon as they hung up, Burton and Gerard took an airtaxi to the outskirts of town, at the foot of the flattened mountain.

The first thing they had to do was to check in with Scottish Air Traffic Control and, of course, call the Wine.

Burton took off as soon as they boarded. His companion took a moment to consider how to present himself to them, simple merchants with a noble heritage they could not or would not understand. He concluded that it would be best, at least during the conversation, to avoid any mention of the society or legend surrounding these three beings. Surely, however, they were aware of their maternal family's other academic achievements and would be flattered that anyone would want to know more about them, to be reminded of the importance of the Robson family name. But what were those other academic achievements?

He walked over to the main monitor and looked up the Robson database that Intelligence had provided them. There was a considerable list of book titles and articles. Some were historical and cultural studies, some were geographical, and a few others were about medicine. He squinted as he scanned the titles. Some of them dealt with the history of Scotland in relation to the Nordic countries, and Gerard decided that there was nothing else on which he could base his claim to be a scholar. He had a general knowledge of it and would have to refresh his memory a bit by reading some of the research, but that was enough. Hopefully the Wines wouldn't know enough about it to notice the charade either, except maybe his daughter, the young historian.

“Listen, Buck, I already have a plan… part of the plan. I'm going to have to do some more reading while we're traveling to get some conversation material. So, I want you to act as my assistant this time, so we can excuse you for not knowing these studies.”

“Really? Yes, thanks for leaving me out of it, I'll be the assistant gladly! It's not that I don't like to study, you know? I just don't feel like it.”

“Okay.”

“Hey… And how are we going to convince the girl to help us?”

“Depending on the situation, we'll be a little more open with her… But the parents, we need to get rid of them as soon as possible or convince them to give us access.”

“Sounds to me like the former is easier, getting rid of them.”

“It sounds like that.”

“Alrighty.”

“Right.”

“Sure.”

“Mm.”

“Ah, this is awkward. I'm gonna go check in with air traffic control. Let me know if you need anything, okay?”

Gerard looked at his partner out of the corner of his eye. He gave a slight smile and went back to his work. He read a bit here and there, only the most relevant things. Meanwhile, the Falconer was already flying over the North Sea. It's amazing how fast time seems to pass when one is busy.

He walked over to the nearest window and watched the sea sway with the currents, seemingly slow and heavy, but actually dynamic and fluid.

He looked at the time on one of the monitors: they were halfway through the journey. It would be a little more than an hour to Glasgow. He couldn't delay the call any longer: he had to give the Wine time to prepare, to make them feel comfortable with the visit.

He made sure to change the background that would be displayed on the receiver's monitor using a chat program: the Wines ought to be unable to see that he was on a plane. He also made some adjustments to the sound so that the microphone on his headset would pick up only the loudest and closest sounds, such as his voice.

Not without some insecurity, Gerard straightened his jacket, stood in front of the computer and dialed the number displayed.

“Good morning,” replied a man of medium height with very short dark blond hair; his voice was weak, hollow and raspy.

“Good morning, is this the Wine residence?” Gerard tried to keep his tone as polite as possible.

“That is correct, but if you want to talk about business, you need to call me. I don't take orders at this number. I hope you understand.”

“Oh. That's not why I'm calling, Mr. Paul Wine?”

“Yes. What do you need, then? Who are you?”

Okay, showtime.

“Gerard Wilker. Pleased to meet you. I'm an aspiring doctoral candidate in Scandinavian history, and I've been reading some of the remarkable books written by your relatives.”

“Ah! An academic, eh? I hope the works of my ancestors have given you all you need. Many of them were excellent historians, I can tell you.”

“I know. And I'm not exaggerating when I say I'm impressed by the number of Robsons who have left their legacy in my field of research, especially this 1957 compendium of Scottish history by Dr. Roger Robson.”

“My great-great-granduncle was always a great national historian, yes. But tell me, what is the reason for your call? You seem to have an American accent. Are you calling from far away, colleague?”

“Yes, my accent is American. But I'm not at home now, I'm in our beloved Glasgow. I must leave soon, and I thought how interesting and enriching it would be to visit the family of such illustrious researchers, perhaps have a cup of tea and talk about the books. If you're not busy, of course.”

“No, that's fine. Sometimes professors from our university and a few other people from outside come to our house to chat and look through the editions and papers we have in storage. It's natural for educated people to have respect for these great works, don't you think?”

“You are absolutely right, Mr. Wine. So, do you think I could visit your home? I may not have another opportunity like this for years, if I'm honest. I'm a busy person.”

“Oh, yes, of course. When would you like to come?”

“Today if possible. I have some time this afternoon.”

“Yes, yes. Listen, if you really can't come later, you can come today. But I won't be there because of work.”

“Too bad, Mr. Wine. I'd like to meet you in person,” he said with terribly well-faked sorrow.

“My wife and daughter will be at home. My daughter is also studying to be a historian, you know? She knows almost everything there is to know about our history, the history of our ancestors and their works. She will take care of you in my absence if you come when I am gone.”

“Wow! It runs in the blood of the family, doesn't it? I'm glad to hear that your daughter has decided to carry on the tradition.”

“Well, it certainly runs in the family blood. Even though I like history and all that, I decided to break that tradition a little bit to be a great businessman. But I tell you, my daughter will be as good as the old Robsons. She'll be writing books and studying like them. Mark my words!”

“They are marked, sir. It will give me great pleasure to visit your home and meet your dear, talented daughter. I'm sure we'll have a lot to talk about. And your wife as well, I'm sure she knows a great deal as well.”

Paul Wine laughed condescendingly.

“My wife wouldn't know anything about it. She's not the intellectual type, you know? But look, she knows how to cook, she's a professional pastry chef and everything. I'll tell her to have some snacks ready for you when you get here, okay?”

“Sounds perfect. Thank you for your permission. I won't take up any more of your time: I know duty calls. I'm going to read a few more pages of this wonderful compendium.”

“That's fine. Anytime.”

It was Mr. Wine who hung up after saying goodbye. What a vain and proud man! A little flattery and Gerard had him in the palm of his hand. And that was the first step.

Burton burst out laughing as he approached him.

“What a liar you are! Heh. Poor guy!” he laughed.

He shrugged with a smile.

“Sometimes you have to do these things. Although I must admit that I feel a little sorry for the man.”

“Wait, you have lied to me? I think you're too good at this acting thing,” he looked at him suspiciously.

“Oh, don't worry, Buck. I'd never lie to my friends like that, honest.”

Burton laughed again, calmer this time.

“Okay, I believe you. Now we have to figure out how to get rid of Mrs. Wine.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Umm. Make up that we saw some super cool sale at a bakery store?”

“I don't think that'll keep her away long enough, Buck.” He was quite amused by his partner's ideas. “And she's going to be really upset when she finds out we tricked her and will tell her husband.”

“Leave her a fake text message from a friend promising an epic gossip session? I can use the computer to send it from any number. She wouldn't know it was us who tricked her, huh?”

“We need her friends' numbers. And it might not distract her enough either…”

“Oh. Give me a minute, I've got more ideas on the tip of my tongue.”

“I'll wait for you.”

Gerard let him think and sat back in the passenger seat to watch the ocean again. Maybe its rhythmic movement could help him concentrate and come up with a good plan for the next step. He squinted: in the distance he could already see the east coast of Scotland.