On Candil Station, nothing that is said is ever lost. BIBA, the station’s librarian, archives books, reports and, above all, voices. Every sentence anyone speaks to her is stored on her shelves, with its date, its time and the place where it was said. She has two rules written into her program: she never says anything false, and she never lends what nobody asks for. Listening to someone else’s recordings requires archive clearance, and on Candil only the person in command has it.
Noa Ibarra, an inspector, arrived from Mars six days after the death of Bastián Oria, the oxygen engineer. Leire, the doctor, had found him in Airlock 3, wearing his suit but no helmet. Commander Mireia’s report said “accident”. It added that since the blackout of 2 March, when the station spent a whole hour in the dark, with no lights and no clocks, several systems had been failing. But Noa hadn’t come for the report. Two days before he died, Bastián had written to her: “The oxygen figures don’t add up. Come in person.”
The commander received her on the bridge, the room from which Candil is run and every one of its doors is opened. “The case is closed,” she said. “That night I was here, on duty, with two officers. If you want someone to blame, talk to Goyo. He’s head of maintenance, the only one who knows how to open an airlock without leaving a trace. And the maintenance log for that night is empty.”
Goyo had no alibi, or so it seemed. But BIBA had kept a sentence of his: at 03:10, two minutes before the airlock opened, someone with his voice had spoken to her from the reading room. Noa went down there. It was a small room, with four armchairs and a huge clock above the door. “BIBA, what did Goyo say to you at 03:10?” “‘What time is it?’”
“Was Goyo in the reading room?” “I don’t know. I have no eyes, only ears. I received his voice.” “Had you heard that same sentence before, in that same voice?” There was a short silence, like someone searching a very high shelf. “Yes. On 2 March, at 11:40, in the canteen. It is identical: the same tone, the same pauses, the same cough at the end.”
Nobody says a sentence exactly the same way twice. A recording does. Noa went to see Goyo in his cabin. She expected excuses and found a tired man. “The reading room? I didn’t leave this cabin that night. I was alone, so I can’t prove it. I’m sorry, Inspector: I have no alibi.”
Noa went back to the library and sat down under the clock. She thought about the sentence at 03:10: who could have taken it from BIBA’s shelves, and why. Then she asked the one question nobody had asked. “BIBA, who has listened to the recording from 2 March?” “Only one person,” the voice replied. And this time Noa already knew which name she was about to hear.