Queen of Angels

31

LitVid 21/1 C Net Sidelights (Philosophical commentator Hrom Vizhniak): “What we have seen so far is a strange and empty world, covered with a weak and sporadic vegetation, the seas filled with plant life and perhaps no other kinds of life, while on the land, the circles of towers—undeniably artificial, it seems to me—tempt us to speculate about the presence of a lost civilization and dead intelligences. The enigma continues throughout this Christmas Day; additional data from AXIS is supplementary rather than revelatory. Project managers at AXIS, and AXIS scientists, are understandably reluctant to posit any theories. But LitVid marches on, and the pressure to make theories is enormous.

“We have asked Roger Atkins of Mind Design Inc to ask the AXIS earthbound simulation what it thinks about the possibility of life on B-2. I spoke with the simulation personally, through the auspices of the simulation’s ‘mother,’ Roger Atkins’s masterpiece of cybernetics, Jill. Here is what AXIS’s earthbound sibling said:” JILL (AXIS Simulation)> “The shape of the towers is quite striking. That the towers seem to do nothing whatsoever would lead me to think they were either designed as static artworks or as monuments or markers, but their placement around the globe, other than their nearness to oceans, is seemingly random. The question of life in the seas is not yet completely answered; AXIS has not ruled out the possibility of large mobile life forms such as whales. There also remains a possibility that the life in the oceans is organized in some fashion not familiar to us.”

Vizhniak: “The reluctance of the simulation to speculate is part and parcel of a disease of quiet that has descended over AXIS’s designers and masters and interpreters. What would they say if they were less discreet? Would they speculate about a living ocean, one unified life form covering the watery parts of B-2? Would they speculate about intelligent beings that have retreated to the seas, reverting to some idyllic primordial form, taking a vacation as it were after having a crack at higher civilization? Perhaps they would tell us that the builders of the towers have moved on to live in space as we begin to do now, building huge space colonies or perhaps starships in which their patterns are stored for long journeys outward…B-2 becomes a toy for the intellect, an enigma that piques our deepest curiosities. In the end, LitVid is left with the idle speculations of boring old farts such as myself. How long we must wait for the truth, who can say?”

Sidelights Editor Rachel Durrell: “Dr, Vizhniak, you’re aware we’re coming up on a peculiar kind of millennium.”

Vizhniak: “Yes. The binary millennium.”

Durrell: “You spoke of our impatience to know, our impatience for finished answers. Do you think the binary millennium is a symptom of childish curiosity?”

Vizhniak: “In a few days, when our year of eleven ones turns to a year of one with eleven zeros after it, speaking in binary of course, a vast number of people feel that something significant will happen. Others will doubtless try to make something significant happen, not that I would wish to encourage them.”

Durrell: “Yes, but do you think this is a symptom of our childishness, our extreme youth?”

Vizhniak: “We are no longer children, I would say humanity entered its difficult adolescence in the twentieth century and now we are teenagers. Childhood was the innocent violence and glory of the Renaissance, the Industrial Revolution, when we learned to use our hands, as it were…the comparisons are inexact, But here we are, struggling with inner forces we do not understand, trying to be mature, forcing ourselves to be mature, and woe to those who put up an appearance of trying to hold us back, We therapy ourselves—and that is not to say that therapy is ineffective, for it is one of the wonders of the mid twenty first century, this push for true mental health. I myself would be half the man I am now without therapy…I consider the reluctance of the untherapied, and their fears about losing individuality, to be groundless. I am not known as a human zero, you know. Some think me pretty crusty. But I wander.

“We punish ourselves as well, and this is the unsavory side of our push to maturity. What we still do not understand, we attempt to purge with pain. Our late suicidal President Raphkind and his unconstitutional attempts to bring American politics into a kind of uniformity of expression, his attempt to repress what he called destructive dissent…His drastic failure as a statesman, his traumatic failure to change the shape of our judicial system…”

Durrell: “Yes, but what about the binary millennium?”

Vizhniak: “What can I say about it? It is dumb. Once, binary numbers had enormous significance, for they were the basis of all computational systems. Now binary computation is outmoded; the lowest of computers use neurological multistate and ramping methods…These people heralding the binary millennium are old fashioned, out of date, like so many apocalyptics in ages past. They are lazy about their wonders. They want truth handed to them on a platter of revelation, a gift from God or some benevolent higher force. The binary millennium is yet another numerological sham.”

Durrell: “Do you believe the revelations of AXIS can be tied into this movement? That AXIS might reveal something on the first day of the new year, something so profound, so shaking, that we have to reevaluate all that we have thought and been before now?”

Vizhniak: “My dear young friend, you sound like a millenary yourself. But of course, the next binary millennium will be much longer than a thousand years…”

Durrell: “Another two thousand and forty eight years.”

Vizhniak: “And the revelations of AXIS will influence us for at least that long, whatever AXIS finds. In our young maturity, we will explore the stars, we will visit B-2 in person. It will be a wonderful time. So perhaps in their exasperating way, they are right. Dating from AXIS’s revelations, a new age, one in which the notion of punishment and retribution will pass completely from our minds.”

Switch/LitVid 21/1 B Net:

AXIS (Band 4)> My mobile explorer is beginning geological analysis of a weathered rock outcropping near the 70 N 176 W tower site. One of my ocean going explorers has not made a report in six hours. A second mobile explorer and a third balloon explorer in the circular northern sea are now detecting processed nutrition related substances that do not seem to be made by the sea’s ubiquitous plant life. They may be traces of animal metabolism; they may also be spoor of an unknown form of motile plant life.

32

Day of the big flight, LA to Hispaniola in two hours. Dawn.

Dytching relentlessly in her living room, waiting for a conference and confirmation call from D Reeve at Joint PD. Concentrating isolating her fear. Her grief over Ernest genuine as if he had died.

As Mary stretched and held dynamic peaceful tension she consulted the city board through her home pd net seeing LA spread out in Perez analysis colorful mosaic each color a community’s state in social space of six dimensions, colors changing every day. Angry red in the jags six months running; unrest from Selector predation.

Mary finished her dytch and stood naked before a full length mirror inside bathroom door, skin shining healthy but still showing the paler crease of buttock. She inspected the blanch, performing a classic Betty Grable and frowned. Least of her worries. Stepped into civvies required whenever pd worked outside the city. Trim dark cranberry and rose longsuit sleeves cut elbow-length, white gloves, static design of flowers in breeze across midline belt, elegant but within duty standards. Had a moment of dizziness not recognizing herself, knowing this was the young girl looking out of her eyes, frightened, so many levels within her frightened for so many reasons none of them rational. What could happen to her in Hispaniola? Millions went there each year to try to spin their way to the platinum life; polite gambling, well paid and socially respectable men and women dark and light of financially amenable virtue.

But Mary Choy would have the weight of US federal. High visibility in times of change. That worried her.

She sat bent over a cup of coffee on the couch in the living room watching the pale dawn across the eastern hills on the comb monitor channel, paging through view after view from the cameras mounted around the comb exterior with a soft laconic bark of aspect numbers. Knowing she was as prepared mentally and physically as she could hope to be this day. Waiting.

Feeling sorry for Ernest. Blanking that.

Little girl amazed at how far she had come living in the comb foot pd investigator body matched to long desire, all things different. What would Mother think, sister, brother Lee. Sadness over the years of silence between them all; her transformation the ultimate insult added to earlier injury. No longer a daughter or a sister. Theo. I am who I am because I have been given a choice. I have chosen and damn you all. Inward seeing her self—still short, round-faced.

Her eye caught the blinking green light of the silenced private number. She watched it signal a message coming through; not D Reeve, who would be using the pd line; wondered if she should answer if it would be Ernest. She needed time to sort through those difficulties. The message ended and the light switched to amber ready.

She cut off the screen and opened the blinds to the real view—a wedge of the second foot and then open city and sky beyond looking north to other combs belted by clouds. Rain falling on the city here and there smudge curtains below the bluepocked ceiling. Looked back to the amber light, shook her head slowly—never could leave a message for long. “Playback private line message,” she said. The amber light winked to blue playback.

“Hello, M Choy? This is Sandra Auchouch. We met in the Joint PD Central two days ago.” The display indicated accompanying picture. Mary switched on the screen and looked over the bichemical orbital transform’s image lovely cream skin wide deer eyes patch of fur on right cheek shaved to reveal orbit guild and agency symbols. “I thought I’d give you a call and let you know when I’m free. As I said, it’s not often I find kindred company during a fall. I’ll be working through this week but I’ll be free New Year’s Eve and Day. Shall we party into the binary millennium? Here’s my remote code. Don’t be shy. Goodbye.”

Mary felt a twinge and told the phone to turn off. She hadn’t had many contacts or friends beyond Ernest and the pd for months. Now she was being pursued and she rather enjoyed the thought of talking and sharing the New Year with somebody new and sympathetic.

“Send text message to Auchouch remote number,” she said. “Sandra: Off on travel for a few days. Let you know when I’m back. Thanks for calling. Terminate and send.”

The pd line chimed fairy carillon.

“Answer. Hello, this is Mary Choy.”

“M Choy, D Reeve. We have everything prepared for your flight. I’ve confirmed two of our top interstate and international investigators to assist you. They’re canny about Hispaniola—they’ve had to deal with Colonel Sir’s less tasty shadows for years now. I believe you know their names: Thomas Cramer from State/City International, Xavier Duschesnes from Interstate. I have them both on conference now, T Cramer, Washington, DC.”

Cramer appeared, late twenties early thirties dark haired round faced wearing what pds thought of as federal camouflage—gray longsuit puffed collar shirt draped cuffs. Cramer was LA extended pd, his job to interface with federal for international problems that affected LA and southern California. Mary knew his work; he tracked hellcrowns and other illegal imports. Cameo beside Cramer appeared another: Mary did not recognize him.

“X Duschesnes, Interstate,” Reeve introduced. “Xavier is in New Orleans. Both will be joining you in Hispaniola later in the evening, a few hours after your arrival. I thought you’d like to talk before departure, brief each other on last minute details.”

Mary nodded cordially. Duschesnes and Cramer returned her greetings. They both seemed tired. “We’re going into Colonel Sir’s boudoir, looking for a murderer,” Cramer said. “I hope LA has exhausted all other possibilities.”

“We found a reservation for a flight to Hispaniola in his name,” Mary said. “And an invitation from Yardley himself. Our sources haven’t found him in the city, and Oversight told us he has done nothing outside the city for several days.”

Cramer whistled. “You got more than zip from Oversight? In the silky,” he said.

“Caribbean Suborbital NordAmericAir confirms that his ticket to Hispaniola was used, but cannot confirm he used it. We inquired through federal, and federal passed our concern on to Hispaniola. Federal tells us it has received a formal diplomatic international clearance for investigation from Yardley himself. They deny that Goldsmith has entered, but we’re cleared to search Hispaniola and use all of their police facilities.”

“I suspect federal put considerable pressure on the Hispaniola government,” Duschesnes said. “There’s a lot of hot and sandy here between federal and Hispaniola. We’ve just closed down two continental clearing houses for hellcrowns. Federal is really cleaning house, and that could make things touchy in Hispaniola.”

“How soon until the real chew starts?” Reeve asked.

“Not for two or three weeks. But hey, federal doesn’t tell us everything. Why not send some of their agents to check this out?”

“I asked. They’re too busy for something this low.” Reeve shook his head dubiously. “Xavier speaks French and Creole. Thomas is well versed in Caribbean affairs. Listen to what they say, Mary.”

“Of course,” she said quietly.

“And all of you, watch your step,” Reeve suggested. “I’m sparked by anything having to do with Yardley and federal now. Step carefully.” The caring tone in his voice was genuine.

“Yes, sir,” Cramer said wearily.

“Gentlemen, thank you for your time.”

“See you in Hispaniola,” Mary said.

“Glad to be of help,” Cramer said.

Duschesnes smiled grimly and nodded. “Later,” he said.

Their cameos faded. Reeve remained on. “You’re not allowed any weapons in transit, of course, and you can’t bring anything into Hispaniola. But there’s a new wrinkle. I’ll have a plain man meet you at LAX oceanport. He’ll have something that might prove useful; slip it into your suitcase before you check it. Instructions will be clear. It’s not exactly legal, but it’s so new, nobody’s bothered to make it illegal yet, either. I hope you don’t have to use it.”

She knew better than to ask questions. Reeve faded without a farewell. Mary took a deep breath and switched off the screen.

That done, the job defined, Mary Choy banished her qualms into a quiet corner and ordered a pd car to the foot entrance second priority.

She gathered her case, made a quick check around the apartment, set the two arbeiters for maintenance and vigilance, told the home manager, “Be good.”

Shut the door behind her.

33

Emanuel Goldsmith had spent Christmas Eve and Day in rigorous diagnostic. Martin Burke ate breakfast in the back of Albigoni’s limousine and scrolled through Goldsmith’s physical and psych evaluations, delivered fresh this morning.

He finished his egg sandwich and became absorbed in the reports, losing all sense of time. Paul Lascal sat across from him staring out of the window, fingers loosely knotted in his lap.

The car slowed briefly in a tangle of private car traffic, some mathematical peculiarity of crowding that had temporarily baffled the intercity computers. Martin looked up only for a second to see this, blinked as might a blind man and returned to the slate, eyes narrowing.

Here was the deep map of the physical man and a shallow map of the mental, upper layers minus the underpinning geology, which would be Martin’s terra to explore.

Goldsmith’s body structure and chemistry type were laid out in thirty pages of complex analysis. Racial characteristics reflected eighty percent negro, twenty percent mixed Caucasian-oriental, negro origins probably central west Africa ca. 18th century, genetic structure reflecting normal variations for such origins. Cell specific gene replacement therapy recommended for various autoimmune diseases likely to occur within ten years; low risk of code block and code altered cancers, low risk of drug related diseases; not likely to become chemically dependent or to suffer other obsessive autoconditioning episodes. Basic health sound. Physically strong and vigorous and not likely to be adversely affected by a triplex probe even of long duration.

Goldsmith’s brain chemistry profile might have been that of an untherapied executive after two or three months of rough corporate weather. All glial and neural functions intact; no lesions or gross discontinuities. He was given a rating of 86-22-43 on the Roche scale, that is, normal in all basic functions but under severe internal/external stress.

High normal glial cells insured a carefully balanced K + Na environment and resistance to code altered axon degeneration. The architecture and efficiency ratings of his mind function activity loci dictated that he would be a generally sociable individual, with emphasis on individual; extreme development of deep imaging and modeling skills pointed to a very active mental life from infancy, and that would presuppose an inner-directed personality, someone who would find as much or more satisfaction looking inward as outward.

This led the analysts to conclude that Goldsmith would perform admirably in careers involving mental as opposed to physical activity; he might show a particular aptitude for mathematics involving spacial problems. No mention was made of linguistic skills; such fine analysis of brain architecture usually required several weeks. Linguistic and mathematical faculties were almost invariably strongly linked genetically.

Multiple murderers were often clearly damaged in certain brain loci, trauma caused by severe mental and physical abuse in childhood, resulting in rerouting and reconstruction of social modeling adaptations. Self and other referential modeling capabilities suffered from these changes, leading to radical separation of self regard and empathy; but Goldsmith’s evaluation showed no clear signs of extreme physical trauma. The therapists performing the diagnostic could not in their limited time find signs of deep mental trauma. Goldsmith admitted to no negative conditions or physical abuse in childhood.

Better and better. Goldsmith was probably one of those four or five percent of all murderers who could not be successfully therapied by physical brain restructuring. That meant that Goldsmith might somehow have chosen in a clear state of mind to murder. The possibility remained, however, that Goldsmith had suffered a major personality break not reflected in his physical condition.

If Goldsmith was physically healthy and mentally integral, that would place him in that rarest of all categories, the intellectual psychopath, the truly evil individual. But Martin’s research through the psych stats cube in his slate told him that fewer than five or six individuals in the past fifty years had met such precise criteria. The chances of his encountering another in Goldsmith were surpassingly slender.

If Goldsmith had suffered a hidden pathogenic break, then Martin was sure that signs of such a condition would be found in the Country. He looked up at Lascal. “I’d still like to see your interviews with Goldsmith.”

“The first talks weren’t recorded,” Lascal said. “We didn’t want any evidence in case we had to release him. If you hadn’t agreed.”

Martin nodded. “And after I agreed?”

“No formal interviews. Nobody spoke with him in detail. When he wasn’t being diagnosed, he stayed alone in his room, reading.”

“Can you tell me where he’s being kept?”

“I suppose it doesn’t matter now. He was staying in a room in Mr. Albigoni’s house. Private wing. He’s being moved now by another car to the IPR.”

Martin considered having been so near to Goldsmith and not knowing. He suppressed a shudder. “Nobody spoke with him? Besides the diagnosticians.”

“He was diagnosed through medical arbeiter remotes. No doctor met him personally. But I spoke to him,” Lascal said. “I met with him once or twice yesterday. He seemed quiet and contented. Peaceful.”

Martin knew that diagnosis through remotes was hardly ideal; this put the evaluations in a new light. “Did he say anything significant to you?”

Lascal thought about that for a moment, putting his hands on his knees and swallowing. “He said he was glad we were going to put Humpty Dumpty together again. He referred to Mr. Albigoni as a king, and he said I must be one of the king’s men.”

Martin smirked and shook his head. Shattered egg. Shattered personality. “That might not mean anything. He knows he’s a miscreant.”

“What’s that?” Lascal asked.

“A transgressor. An evildoer.”

“Ah. An old fashioned word. I’ve never heard it pronounced.”

“A transgressor automatically assumes that something besides him or herself is to blame, or at least puts on that front. Physical or mental damage can be blamed…Goldsmith, just to make polite conversation, to put a good face on things, would agree with your presumed judgment that he is insane, and excuse himself by making a metaphor…That he is a shattered egg.”

“He didn’t deny his guilt in the beginning. He said that he did it and that he bore sole responsibility.”

“But you didn’t record those interviews. I can’t learn anything from his tone or his mannerisms.”

Lascal smiled at the implied accusation. “We were more than a little confused and indecisive.”

“I don’t blame you,” Martin said. “Not for that.”

“What do you blame us for, Dr. Burke?”

Martin declined Lascal’s steady gaze. “The obvious…That Albigoni didn’t turn Goldsmith over to the pd immediately.”

“We’ve been through this before,” Lascal said, looking out the window again. They moved rapidly south through light late morning slave traffic, passing the old glass and concrete resorts and ground level neighborhoods of San Clemente. “Mr. Albigoni thought that if he turned Goldsmith in, he would never really know why Goldsmith killed those kids. His daughter. And he had to know.”

Martin leaned forward. “He thought the therapists would do a large scale patchup, a general radical therapy, and Goldsmith would no longer be Goldsmith. Might not even be a poet.”

Lascal did not deny this.

“I suspect Albigoni believes that what made Mr. Goldsmith a good poet is intimately linked with his being a murderer,” Martin said. “It’s an old misconception supported by science only when psychology was a squalling infant, that genius is close to madness.”

“Perhaps, but if Mr. Albigoni learns there’s any link at all, and there’s a possibility he brought a scorpion into his home and lost his daughter…”

Martin leaned back, witnessing yet again Paul Lascal’s transformation into a paid surrogate of Albigoni, a man whose job it was to anticipate the whims and emotions of his boss. How solidly grounded was Lascal’s sense of self?

“Who are you, Mr. Lascal?”

“Beg pardon?”

“What put you on the Albigoni spin?”

“I’m not the one you’re examining, Dr. Burke.”

“Idle curiosity.”

“Out of place,” Lascal said coldly. “I’m an employee of Mr. Albigoni, and I’m also a friend—though not a social equal, perhaps. You think of it as symbiosis. I think of it as helping a great man get through this life with a little more efficiency, a little more time to do what he is truly good at doing. The perfect lackey, you might say, but I’m content.”

“I don’t doubt you are. That’s a remarkably cogent self analysis, Mr. Lascal.”

Lascal regarded him coldly. “Ten more minutes, unless we hit another knot.”

34

Writing for hours on end until his muscles cramped, his stomach growling for lack of food, stopping only for a few moments each hour to relieve a persistent and irritating diarrhea, Richard Fettle reveled in his diabolic concentration, once again slave to words. The day before, he had suspended all judgment over what he was writing; he no longer revised, he hardly even bothered to keep his grammar tidy.

Nadine had abandoned him unnoticed and probably for good sometime the night before. He had since written an additional thirty crabbed pages and was running out of paper but no matter; he now had no qualms whatsoever about using the despised slate. The physical quality of the words he was writing meant nothing; only the act itself.

He was happy.

stopped to survey the blood, he would find auspices in the sprayed life of these poor adoring chickens, his students. To realize with a fresh, exhilarating terror the extent to his freedom, and how precarious it was. How much longer could he live, knowing what he knew? He squatted among the flesh ruins for yet another hour, watching the blood grow dark and sticky. He philosophized about its senseless attempt to coagulate, to shut out the bad world, when in fact death was here and the bad world had already triumphed. So had the bad world triumphed in him; he was as dead as his students, but miraculously able to move and think and question; dead in life, free. He was loosed of the bonds his previous years of socialized life had clamped to him; slipped of the reputation that had smothered him. Why then didn’t he leave the apartment and begin immediately to prolong his living death? The longer he stayed, the more chance his freedom would be discovered and circumscribed.

He left the room of slaughter and went into his office, to look over his serried ranks of works, the books and plays and poems, the volumes of letters, all superseded. Before he could leave all this, he had to write his manifesto. That could only be done with a pen and ink, not with the vanishing electronic words of a slate.

The last sheet of paper was full. Richard stacked the pages neatly to one side and brought out the slate, grinning at the ironic divergence. He paused for a moment, sensing his bowels shift, waited for the return of some temporary stability, then switched on the slate and continued.

“I cannot say I am sorry for what I have done. The poet must go where no others go, or where the despised go. I am now there, and the freedom is breathtaking. I can do and write about whatever I want; no greater penalties or oppobrium *cheep*

MISSPELLED WORD I Suggest OPPROBRIUM.

“Dammit.” He shut down the correction feature.

“can be added. I can write about racial hatred, my own hatred, approvingly or disapprovingly; I can suggest that the whole human race should be immolated, children first; that the therapied should be burned alive in their concrete mausoleums. I can shout that the Selectors are correct and that the imposition of ultimate pain is the only way to cure some of the diseases of this society should it continue to exist; perhaps infants should be subjected to the hellcrown to prepare them for the evil they will inevitably do. But writing is dead for me, too; I can do whatever I want. Catch me soon. I will not stay for your inane judgments. I have other things to experiment with.

“I am the only human being alive, and that is because I am dead.”

Having written this manifesto, he pinned the sheet of paper to the wall with his father’s knife, the weapon of his freedom, and walked past the door to the room of slaughter, not looking in, aware of his freedom yet again, like a new suit of clothes or no clothes at all.

He left the apartment, the comb, the city. Outside, it seemed he might ascend into the clouds, become a passing vapor and rain down on all that he might be absorbed by them, the whole human race choosing to slaughter itself, to truly be free; and then perhaps a few, a hundred or a thousand, of those also dead-alive, the survivors of this truth-gathering, would

He stopped and rushed to the bathroom. Purged himself as he imagined Goldsmith might have felt purged; wondered if he could use that metaphor shitting himself clean or had already used it; could not remember. Returned to the slate, hitching up his pants.

finally know who they were, a finality of awareness, their selves distinguished and etched more deeply, their spirits unified in sorrow and joy for what they had done.

Now was the best time to end but the smoothness was not there; he would best cut it short now and polish later not to interrupt the spontaneity.

He could not now become a cloud however. He would have to find another way to vanish. Disappearing, his name would become legend; he would be more famous than any poet, and in their dreams, people would think of him, wonder where he was, and then he would be inside of them and that would be just as good. Better. He walked his first mile away from the city, into the brown hills. He crossed scorched grassland

Not ending smoothly at all; refusing to end, in fact, and Richard needed to rest.

and felt the cold wind blowing through his clothes, on his flesh,

Richard closed his eyes, trying to force the ending, seeing instead a kind of continuing adventure. Goldsmith within him wanted to explore this new freedom. But suddenly Richard was exhausted and a black pall moved between him and the slate screen. Another purge coming on.

the puffs of smudge from a controlled burn rising about his legs, “I will burn this society to its roots

He could feel another manifesto coming on as well. “Please let me go,” he muttered, rolling on the bed, drawing up his legs.

and let the green new grass grow through, fresh and free

Rushed to the bathroom.

35

Oceanport LAX lay four miles out from shore, serviced by VTOL shuttles and three highway bridges. Liftways branched to the west and north like the rays of a Navajo sun sign; to the south and east vast pinkish gray bodies of water edged by narrow seafence revealed oceangoing nano farms linked to the central oceanport platform.

The scramjet sat quietly idling its four huge engines on the liftway, sleek gray sharkshape seeming to fly even on the ground. The embarking passenger tube snaked slowly out and met its door. Waiting travelers boarded from one end as disembarking passengers exited via a rear tube. Arbeiters smoothly rolled from the plane across their own tube, carrying the detritus of the previous flight. Scramjets never rested; their engines burned hydrogen day and night automatic pilots never shutting down, human supervisors changing watch every eight hours or two round trips whichever came first.

Mary Choy settled into the seat. Straps curled around her, adapting to her shape. She looked out the broad window at a massive black bulbous nosed suborbital warming up for its launch farther out on the liftway. Fifty suborbitals a day launched from oceanport to cross the immense Pacific in less than an hour, each carrying upward of a thousand passengers or a hundred tons of cargo. Scramjets were for shorter hops or less traveled routes; they carried less than four hundred passengers and traveled at no more than three times the speed of sound. The flight to Santo Domingo HIS would take just under three hours. She could have traveled to China faster.

Low wisps of cloud lay in a ragged fringe to the west. The ocean beyond the liftways was bright blue under a noon pearlsun burning through high haze. Mary absorbed this all with a curious hunger. Eager to land in Hispaniola and perform her job, eager to get through the next few weeks.

Eager to get away from her failures.

In the terminal Reeve’s plain messenger had given her a box containing a metal comb a makeup kit and a hairbrush. The hairbrush’s handle unscrewed with a trick twist to show a gray paste that she recognized as some sort of nano. She had put the box into her luggage and checked it through. The messenger had also given her a disk containing instructions. She took out her slate now and played the disk. When finished she erased the disk tucked away the slate and looked out the window thoughtfully. As Reeve had said not exactly legal. But under the circumstances, very interesting. She wondered if it would work.

The seatback airline vid came on automatically before her and she shut it off with a languid finger flick. Closed her eyes. Looked back through the past two days at the comfortable physicality and affection of her time with Ernest, ending in schism. Duty over life. All she had was duty it seemed at times; her focus and reason for being. Keeping the forces of darkness at bay that others might live and love undisturbed; not her. No self pity.

The turbines of the liner’s engines ramped in subsonic mode to a high whistle. Outside the noise could be easily tolerated, chaos of turbulent air reduced by ducts constantly adjusting controlling diverting and funneling at three hundred trims per second, playing one rolling wave of sound off against another. Only in the center of the exhaust would noise crescend to the unbearable. She imagined herself sitting there invulnerable beaten by the string of fire cones, staring into the furnace.

Melodrama.

Pd’s duty was to quiet the noise of the human furnace.

She smiled as the plane began its forward roll. Briefly the exhaust was diverted for vertical lift and the engines gave their true enveloping bellow like a thousand hurricanes played backward, muffled only by the superior design of the gray shark’s skin. They rolled and rose and crossed with a transverse weave off liftway and over blue water, blowing concentric storms with the last wash of the vertical thrust; then the scramjet was at speed and smoothly cutting air ascending sharp forty-five, pressure rising within the cabin, balancing. Whisper quiet. Might as well be in a glider or soaring.

The plane was not full. Jitters in the tourist market; most of these passengers would be LA tourists on their way to stable Puerto Rico, transferring to VTOL shuttles in Hispaniola. People front and back talking unconcerned. Normal folks with real lives and real loves and balanced duty, internal pressure matching external.

Mary closed her eyes and reclined her seat. The scramjet bumped onto its own shockwave and surfed at forty two thousand feet quieter still ahead of its own noise. A single steward chaperoned a pair of arbeiters bearing drinks along a ceiling track, dropping food from hidden ducts running the spine length of this comfortable shark. Bellying up to second mach.

Mary could not sleep. She turned on the seatback vid and flipped through channels, found LA civic news, selected for comb tales, hoping to catch the public spin on Goldsmith. Surprisingly little furor in the commercial vids or the LitVids. Goldsmith’s murders were hardly an everyday occurrence but neither were they tuned to the particular frequency of today’s public passions.

The murders had been bumped by an exceeding interest in the unresolved discoveries of AXIS. Space did not interest her much. She felt a touch of irritation and switched channels to jag tales.

More Selector predation. A representative of sixth jag twenty eighth district Mario Pelletier by name longtime politico had been hellcrowned for alleged misappropriation of jag untherapied relief revenues. Twenty seconds in the clamp. Required minor glial balance therapy to recover from the trauma but refused any other treatment. “I took my licks. I can take whatever they dish out. Not so bad. Not so bad.” Haunted look; almost certainly would retire within a few weeks nest in with whatever family he had wrap nacre around his life and avoid any possible second encounter. Selectors would have triumphed yet again raising public image making the bent untherapied a little more wary a little more cautious, perhaps walk a little more the straight and narrow.

She curled her fingers reflexively. Not legal, but she would hellcrown every Selector for three minutes. Barge into Selector hideout six arbeiters three assistants grab Yol Origund himself, the Israeli expatriate who had taken the Selector mantle from founder Wolfe Ruller. Push the assistants outside watch the arbeiters tie the captives into hard chairs pull the clamp on their heads scan and reroute their own darkest inner boxes, watch the flick of concern as they see red lines…

Crime and punishment.

She switched back to the AXIS reports. Poor Ernest. He would never use a hellcrown for its intended purpose but the technological sparkles enchanted him. What artist would not want even the crudest direct access to the viewer’s imagination.

Had she been too harsh. No knowing. Duty and law.

Mary Choy caught herself hitching a sob. Spun out and not yet begun. She glanced at her seatmates C, E, F, G, three young men in longsuits and an older woman expensively dressed in thirties period all involved in seatback vid, deadsound dulling their entertainments to distant whispers. They heard nothing of her distress.

LitVid 21/1 A Net (David Shine): “AXIS’s number two mobile explorer has finally finished an investigation of the sample scraped from one of the towers found arranged in rings across B-2. While the mobile explorer’s nano based laboratories are very small, they are almost as thorough as any similar laboratories on Earth, the only difference being that on Earth, we’ve experienced an additional fifteen years of progress. Still, the results are expected to be enlightening.

“If you’ve noticed, as we have, that reports from all AXIS monitoring facilities have been less informative recently, there’s a simple explanation. We are in a difficult phase of AXIS’s exploration of B-2. The large-scale investigations have shown a world at once enigmatic and entrancing, a world covered with life but with no obvious animals or even large plants. Yet the existence of the circles of towers seems to point to some form of intelligent life, though we are cautioned against drawing such conclusions. What AXIS is doing now is delving deeper into the evidence it’s gathered thus far. The mobile explorers wander and float purposefully and conduct their analyses; the nickel sized children continue to broadcast information about the planet as a whole; the volumes of information AXIS is absorbing are tremendous.

“But AXIS is not able to quickly send all this information directly back to Earth. AXIS has been designed as a true remote thinking machine, able to conduct its own experiments and draw its own conclusions, condensing the information—freeze drying it, as it were—and sending the more compact results to us.

“Should AXIS find a mystery it cannot solve, then the unprocessed facts will indeed be returned to Earth, but not immediately; that process could take years, even decades. AXIS is capable of surviving for at least a century, repairing itself, happily going about its work; but there are many weak links, not the least of them being the transponders spread across deep space between Earth and Alpha Centauri. They cannot repair themselves as AXIS can. They exist in the deep cold of interstellar space and their entire energy budget is devoted to receiving and transmitting signals. Should one of these transponders be lost, transmission time of all information will quadruple. Should more than one be lost, transmission may stop completely or proceed at an impossibly slow rate.

“And if for any reason part of a message is lost, it will take virtually another decade to instruct AXIS to send it again. The thread of AXIS’s downlink to Earth is fragile indeed, which I suppose is only fitting, considering how audacious this enterprise is in the first place.”

36

The Institute for Psychological Research rose from a seventeen acre lawn like an inverted step pyramid, one edge knifing into a ten story bronze and green glass cylinder. The building had originally belonged to a Chinese and Russian research center; under Raphkind many Chinese and Russian holdings within the continental United States had been nationalized following a joint default on US Bank loans.

The building had gone unused for six months then had been handed over with virtually no strings attached to Martin Burke. Within a year the IPR had seemed a permanent fixture, employing three hundred people.

The lawn was self maintaining as were all the gardens on the IPR grounds; desertion did not carry an onus of neglect anymore. Throughout the building arbeiters would have kept everything shipshape. Except for human plundering the IPR should be just as he had left it…

The car parked openly before the glass doors and Martin stepped out, reaching back to take his slate from Lascal. “Home is the hunter,” Lascal said. “We’ve checked all federal and metro eyes and ears. None are in use now. The place is quiet.”

Martin ignored that and walked toward the glass doors. They did not refuse him. For a brief moment simply to enter the building as he had a thousand times before as if nothing had ever happened was worth all he had agreed to.

Lascal followed at a discreet distance. Martin lingered in the reception area for a moment clutching his slate with white knuckled fingers. He glanced at Lascal, who returned the ghost of a smile. Martin nodded and proceeded past the empty front desk then called back over his shoulder, “Who’s guarding the place?”

“Not for you to worry about,” Lascal said. “It’s secure.”

“We just drove up and walked in…” Martin said, his voice trailing off. Not to worry about. “Where’s Dr. Neuman?”

“Everybody’s on the first research level,” Lascal said, following Martin’s hollow footsteps.

“And where’s Goldsmith?”

“In one of the patient rooms.”

Martin stepped into his old office at the end of the hall two doors before the elevators to the underground research level. The disk cabinets opened to his touch but were empty; his desktop was clean. Biting his lower lip he tried the drawers on the desk; they were locked and would not accept his thumb-print. He was back but he was not home; home no longer recognized him.

“You didn’t need that stuff, did you?” Lascal asked quietly, standing in the door. “You didn’t tell us you needed it.”

Martin shook his head quickly and pushed past him.

The elevator door opened at his approach and he got in, Lascal following two steps behind. Martin felt his anger rise and worked to control it. Two words kept echoing through his head: No right. Perhaps that meant that they had had no right to ransack his workplace; it might also mean there was no right to be found in anybody’s actions regarding IPR.

Twenty seven feet down. The doors opened. No time at all since he last walked this hall turned to the left and authoritatively opened the large door to the central research theater. Martin stood hands on hips, darting glances at the lowered stage. Above the stage, behind thick glass, three rows of swivel seats occupied a gallery. Banks of lights glowed gently, recessed into the hemispherical dome directly over the theater. Most of the equipment was still in place as he had left it, tended by two research arbeiters: the white and silver triplex cylinder, nano monitors, flat ranks of five computers and one thinker arrayed to the left of the three gray couches, minus the buffer computer, within which investigators and investigated might have the security of knowing they were swimming in a time delayed simulation…

Martin licked his lips and turned to Lascal. “All right,” he said. “Let’s get started.”

Lascal nodded. “Miss Neuman and Mr. Albigoni are in the observation room adjacent. We’ve also managed to secure four of the five assistants you asked for.”

“Who?”

“Erwin Smith, David Wilson, Karl Anderson, Margery Underhill.”

“Then let’s bring the group together.”

They walked to the rear of the stage, through another small door and into the hallway leading to the patients’ quarters. Martin recalled the last of the twenty seven people he had investigated and therapied here, a young woman named Sarah Nin; he vividly remembered her Country, a gentle jungle dotted with sprawling mansions all filled with exotic animals. Voyaging through her he had half come to love Sarah Nin, a kind of reverse transference; her interior had been so peaceful, her exterior—large, cowlike, dull normal—so apparently untroubled.

He had often dreamed about Sarah Nin’s Country. He doubted Goldsmith’s would be nearly so simple or pleasant.

Goldsmith was being kept in the patient room Sarah Nin had occupied. Two slender powerful men in longsuits stood outside this door watching them intently as they approached, nodding acknowledgment to Lascal.

“Mr. Albigoni is in there,” the taller of the two men said, pointing to the door across the hall. This was the observation room.

Lascal opened this door and Martin entered.

Albigoni and Carol Neuman sat talking quietly in chairs opposite the main screen. They looked up as the door opened. Carol smiled and stood. Albigoni leaned forward elbows on knees, eyebrows raised expectantly. Martin reached out and shook Carol’s hand.

“We’re almost ready,” she said. “I’ve given our four assistants a refresher course. It’s been a while for them.”

Martin nodded. “Of course. I’d like to talk with them as well.”

“They’ll be here in a few minutes,” Carol said.

“Good. I just…took a brief look at the theater. Everything but the buffer seems to be there, in place.”

“It’s enough,” Carol affirmed. Martin tried to avoid looking at her directly. He felt particularly vulnerable now. His pulse was racing; he took periodic deep breaths and he could not stand still.

“How’s Goldsmith?”

“Fine, when I last spoke to him,” Albigoni said. The instigator of all this seemed calm, a center of peaceful purpose around which Martin saw he would be orbiting, electron to the publisher’s nucleus. Unimportant. Why here at all, then? Everything was ready to go; they might just as well do it without him.

“Let’s see him, then,” Martin said, pulling the third seat into proper position to view the main screen. Lascal sat on a countertop behind them. Carol flipped open her chair arm controls and activated the screen. “Room one, please,” she said.

Goldsmith sat stooped over on the edge of the neatly made bed, book held before him at knee level. Black hair rumpled clothes wrinkled but face serene. Martin studied the face quietly, noting the hooded sleepy eyes strong character lines surrounding nose and mouth steady sweep back and forth of eyes totally concentrating on the book.

“What’s the book?” Martin asked.

“The Qu’ran,” Albigoni said. “A special edition I published fifteen years ago. It was the only book he had with him.”

Martin looked over his shoulder at Lascal. “He’s been reading it all along?”

“Off and on,” Lascal said. “He called it ‘the religion of the slavers.’ Said if he was to be imprisoned he should know the mentality of masters.”

“Moslems made lots of slave raids,” Carol said.

“I know,” Martin said. “But he’s not a Moslem himself, is he? There’s nothing about that in his description.”

“He’s not a Moslem,” Albigoni said. “Doesn’t believe in any formal religion as far as I know. Dabbled in vodoun a few years ago but not seriously. Used to visit a shop in LA for ritual items, more for research than spiritual need, I think.”

Two of the IPR’s patients had been born to the Islamic faith. Their Countries had been difficult and disturbing places, magnificent from a research angle, easily worth ten times the three or four papers he had written on them, but not to Martin’s taste. He had hoped to be able to train Islamic researchers to handle this particular cultural and religious terra, but had not been allowed enough time.

“He seems more at peace than I feel,” Martin said.

“He’s prepared for anything,” Albigoni said. “I could walk in there with a pistol or a hellcrown right now and he would welcome me.”

“Mass murderer as martyr saint,” Carol said. She gave Martin a small conspiratorial smile as if to say The perfect challenge, no?

Martin’s smile back at her was a mere flicker. His stomach was tight as a drum. There was a difference between being Fausted and being Faust. He was about to cross the line.

Goldsmith’s hands were textured like fine leather, fingers loosely gripping the book. Clean. No blood.

Martin stood. “Time to go to work. Carol, let’s meet with the four and plan out the next few days.”

Albigoni looked at him with some surprise.

“We don’t do this all at once, Mr. Albigoni,” Martin said, glad to see something other than calm expectation on his benefactor’s face. “We plan, we prepare, we rehearse. I trust you’ve given us enough time here.”

“As much as you need,” Lascal said.

Martin nodded sharply and took Carol’s arm. “Gentlemen, excuse us.” They left the room together. Martin shook his head dubiously as they walked past the guards down the hall to the support and monitoring room.

“I wish they’d all just leave,” he said.

“They’re paying the tab,” Carol reminded.

“God save us all.”

37

Richard Fettle clasped the slate and thirty pages and walked on unsteady legs up the steps, turning with a jerk as the autobus made an unusual wheel noise against the curb behind him. His nerves were frayed and he could hardly think. He did not remember climbing the rest of the steps when he stood beside the white enameled wrought iron bird cage. He fancied for a moment that the bird was alive blinking at him. He pressed the doorbell and heard chimes within. The day was warming nicely and that was well for he wore only a shortsleeve shirt.

+ Please answer. Need company.

Leslie Verdugo answered the door. She did not speak but smiled in his general direction, ether seeing.

“Hello,” Richard said. “Is Madame in?”

“It’s show and tell,” she said softly. “Everybody’s here but Nadine. Are you alone?” She looked behind him with wide eyes as if expecting a crowd of Selectors.

“Alone,” Richard affirmed.

Madame’s voice drifted from within. “Is that Richard? Richard, do come in. I’ve been worried.”

Time went white and empty until he found himself reading the manuscript aloud. In a circle facing Madame de Roche familiar faces all around listening to him read. Coming to himself with a start Richard surmised he had spoken to a few people or perhaps only to Madame de Roche and had expressed his perhaps less than convinced joy that he was again writing. Conveyed his qualms about what he wrote. General sense of unease. Someone probably Raymond Cathcart had said something significant and he tried to remember it as he read + Possession by Goldsmith literary possession.

They fed him a delayed lunch midway, the whole group standing around making small talk and waiting for the rest. + More attention than I’ve gotten in years.

Richard felt stronger and more human. His memory became steady and his bowels as well. “I’d like to finish this now,” he said, handing his tray to Leslie Verdugo. Madame de Roche, sitting in her broad padded wicker chair, flame colored dress the color center of the throng, nodded. “We’re ready,” she said.

He read on. Twilight came to the canyon and the house lights came on startling him a little though he did not break stride; he had appreciated the deepening shadows the grayness of the large living room. Here was a kind of low stimulus heaven his colleagues his friends his companions all sitting and standing around him listening to these fresh words, quiet as if in awe. He might die now and happily stay frozen here forever a museum specimen.

“I still haven’t worked out the conclusion yet,” he warned as he switched to the text recorded in the slate. “It’s very rough.”

“Go on,” urged Siobhan Edumbraga, hooded eyes focused on him alone enthralled by the gore.

He revised as he read frowning at the crudeness yet feeling the power, knowing he communicated his emotions better than he had ever done before. At times he could not keep tears from his eyes and a tremor from his voice.

“Don’t stop,” Madame de Roche said as he paused to recover from a particularly affecting sentence.

Sadness and a sense of loss beyond the manuscript’s melancholy horror came upon him as he finished the last few paragraphs. He had written and written well and had become the center of this circle of people he now seemed to admire and look up to, people who meant a great deal to him. They were the last real link he had with social life and he would soon surrender their complete attention. This moment would pass and it might be the finest moment of his recent life the finest moment since he had watched his daughter being born—

He fumbled the last sentence backed up read it again lowered the slate but did not raise his eyes, long fingers trembling.

Madame sighed deeply. “Alas,” she said. He raised his eyes just enough to see her shaking her head. Her own eyes were closed, her face pruned into a mask of sadness. “He was of us,” she continued. “He was one of us and we could not know, only Richard could know what he was going through.”

Raymond Cathcart stepped forward blocking his view of Leslie Verdugo, who was not smiling. “My God, Fettle. You actually believe that’s why he killed them all?”

Richard nodded.

“That’s bizarre. You’re saying he did it for his art?”

Siobhan Edumbraga brayed whether laughter or weeping Fettle could not tell, for her face was fixed as a mask eyes hooded fingers clumped beneath her chin.

“I’ve tried not to put it so baldly,” Richard said.

“No. Hide confusion behind confusion, I always say.” Cathcart circled him. “Madame de Roche, do you believe this…writing of Fettle’s?”

“I can see this need,” she said, “this desire to so change one’s circumstance or to be stifled…I’ve felt it myself. From what I know of Emanuel, Richard has it correctly.”

Madame did more than tolerate differing opinions; she encouraged them, and she particularly encouraged them from Cathcart, a poet Richard did not admire though he had written some worthwhile pieces. Richard felt as if he were being stalked.

Cathcart shrugged off Madame de Roche’s support. “I don’t believe it. It’s all horrible cliche, Fettle.”

“I don’t believe it either,” Edumbraga said decisively, unclumping her fingers. Thorn Engles, a newcomer to the group, moved in now and squatted on his haunches before Richard.

“It’s an insult,” he said. “It’s not even well written. Pure stream of consciousness melodrama. Goldsmith is a poet, a human being, a character as complex as you or I. To kill just to regain some poetic insight or shake loose the bonds of society still means to kill, and that requires a tremendous change in a human being, unless we’ve all misjudged Goldsmith…We may have, but I’m sorry. You haven’t convinced me.”

Richard looked up with wounded eyes and realized he was behaving like a victim again, also realized he was not about to defend himself. The work must stand alone; so he had always said, so he had always believed.

He had not seen Nadine come in but now she stood at the rear of the group. She tried to speak up for him and he was darkly grateful but Cathcart beat her back with a cruel witticism. Three printers of broadsides offered halfhearted objections to Cathcart’s criticism, then gave helpful criticisms of their own that were if anything more devastating; suggestions to reduce the visceral enhance the salutary. Madame let them speak.

+ She does not know what they are killing.

After a time Richard stood up, papers and slate clutched in one long fingered hand, nodded to each of them and thanked the group, took Madame’s hand and shook it and walked from the room. Nadine followed.

“Why did you read it to them?” she asked, hanging on his long arm. “It’s not ready yet. You know that.”

Confusion. Why indeed? Immediate gratification; despite what he had told them he had felt it was a masterpiece already complete and final. Why be disappointed? “I have to go now,” he said quietly.

“Are you all right, Richard?” Nadine asked. He looked at her, wounded eagle, nodded. Left her in the house, passing the macaw.

“Do come again,” the macaw screeched, finding in its corroded innards a chance spark of motion.

He hadn’t called an autobus. He walked with a small stagger left right down the road and two kilometers out of the canyon into a shade retail zone.

In an old corner shopping center resided an Ancient Psyche Arts parlor for those who found true therapy threatening but felt they needed outside help; a store that rented booths containing sexually capable arbeiters called fappers or prosthetutes; an automated convenience store with small delivery carts rumbling in and out of the slaved commercial traffic lanes. On the corner before this angle of common life, Richard caught an autobus on a whim stop.

He needed a second opinion though he feared going to the wine ranch or the Pacific Arts Lit Parlor was the same as killing his manuscript once and for all. + Little sympathy or understanding either place. All I deserve.

He knew he had been a prize fool. A monk emerging from cloisters after many years of celibacy embarking on a new love clumsy sausage-fingered brute writing away at an insolvable theme daring to attempt to imagine Emanuel Goldsmith’s inner thoughts during that greatest of mysteries—a man when he is evil.

He held up the clumped disarrayed papers and considered throwing them to the bus floor and forgetting them, brushed his finger along a few leaves spread them read again found here and there a gleam of success in the mud of ineptitude.

+ Not a total loss. Salvage some and cut. Can’t hope to get it all right first draft. Foolish. I need advice and not just clumsy condemnation.

Looking through the window he shook his head and smiled. Nothing like the writer’s mind. Ever foolish ever optimistic. The lit parlor folks might actually be better than Madame’s group. Jacob Welsh in particular; an odd man but concise in his criticism never cruel; leaving that to antimatter Yermak. Perhaps Yermak would not be there, though they seldom came separately.

The bus stopped a block beyond the wine ranch and lit parlor and he stood under the cool fringe curtain sky, watching a golden line of reflected sunlight cross the boulevard. He blinked at the wall of the combs and the single mirror slab sunbright in that wall, pointing directly at him, specked suddenly a self image as a spotlighted rabbit condemned to the warrens. So lost and ignorant of the forces that moved him, silky only in the drunk of his blindness; sobriety bringing somber awareness and pain. He itched to record that but shook his head again and grinned at the solid seating of this fresh urge to write.

Lit parlor folks could not unbalance him. He would be prepared this time as he had not been at Madame de Roche’s; he would fit his cogs to the available machine.

The wine ranch was closed, reason not given in the terse electric stat sign pasted to the old glass door. Dont be roughed, it blinked. We’re gone to be people today. Come later; when? He recognized the cadence of Goldsmith; had Goldsmith written it for them, years back? Or was he obsessively finding Emanuel everywhere?

Race is like acid in a tight metal groove; we etch. Hope? That had been Goldsmith ten years ago, shuddered by life. They had gone to the wine ranch the day he had written that, Richard and Emanuel, drinking sad conviviality with the wine, Richard enjoying the poet’s low energy camaraderie. A misplaced love affair or some casual rejection by the world of publishing Richard could not recall which bringing Goldsmith down to a peaceful sad calm and a need to lean on Fettle. The distance of fame and achievement had narrowed to practically nothing between them; Richard had felt sympathy, human instinct to help a down fellow. Goldsmith had written that poem on a statkin after shaking the separated foodcrumbs to the floor. Thirty lines of dismay at the river flush of humanity’s ignorance of its selves.

Fettle watched the sign blinking, moving.

They had ceremoniously paid the waiter twenty cents for the statkin and taken it back to Goldsmith’s apartment. Goldsmith had lived on Vermont Ave in the shade then, not the rising combs. He had mounted the statkin in a picture frame and recorded it before the ink flaked off. For years he had kept the blank statkin framed and called it “a quantum criticism, God bushing all our weak expressions.”

Richard walked the short distance to the Pacific Arts Lit Parlor, saw through the long apricot glass window a small crowd of patrons and members. No sign of Yermak; but there was Welsh. He entered and paid his admission to an arbeiter dressed to resemble Samuel Johnson, took a vacant stool at the long oak bar now tended by compassionate Miriel, a partial transform with minkfur instead of hair on her crown and a stud of gleaming scales on each cheek. Daughter of the proprietor Mr. Pacifico, known by no other name.

“Miriel,” he said confidentially, revealing the manuscript and slate. “I’ve had a hitch of invention after a long desuetude. I’m out of a rut but I need critique.”

“We’re not doing litcrit or readings this hour,” Miriel said, but she sympathied his sad eagle and touched his arm with goldcapped fingers. “Even so, when the urge is on, who can deny? I’ll call a circle. You’re writing? How wonderful! That’s breaking the block of years, isn’t it, Mr. Fettle?”

“Many years,” he said. “Since.”

She watched him with large warm brown eyes minkfur wrinkling his way. Despite her sympathy he saw her more as a large rat than mink. Miriel leaned over the bar and addressed the others, particularly Welsh.

“Patrons, patrons,” she said. “We have here a friend out of a rut, new work in hand. Mr. Welsh, can we get a circle together, special?”

Jacob Welsh turned to eye Fettle, surprised. Smiled. Glanced at the five other patrons for their approval; Fettle knew none of them. They all agreed, literary charity.

Yermak entered the door just as Richard began reading his manuscript. He joined the circle without a word but his expression said all and did not change as Richard read through the beginning to the middle, voice sonorous and steady.

the hours of simply being not who I am but what I am. Postures

assumed every day even when there are no visitors. It creeps into

my poetry as well; a dullness like a poorly soldered joint. That’s

it; I cannot connect with the proper influx of current, for I am

badly joined to this life, and the join is crumbling every day.

“Poetry as current,” Yermak said under his breath. “Good, good.”

Richard could not tell whether he was being sarcastic; with Yermak it hardly mattered. What he liked he despised for being likable. Welsh raised an eyebrow at the youth and Yermak returned an acquiescing smile. Richard read to the end, lowered the slate and pages, mumbled something about not quite having it right and needing suggestions. Looked around the circle with his wounded eagle eyes. Yermak stared at him with a shocked expression but said nothing.

“This is truly you,” Welsh said.

“It’s very odd,” Miriel said from behind the bar. “What are you going to do with it?”

“What I mean to say is this must be you, it’s certainly not Goldsmith,” Welsh continued.

“I’m—” Richard stopped himself. + Work must stand alone.

“It’s good,” Yermak said. Richard felt a rush of warmth toward the youth; perhaps there was something in him worthwhile after all. “It clicks and slims as fable. I’d wrap it in a longer work, a litbio.” Yermak raised his hands to paint a scene, staring up at his spread fingers with reverence. “Bio of a nonwriter, struggling violently to understand.”

Richard saw the blow coming but could not withdraw fast enough. Yermak turned to him and said, “You’ve given me great insight. Now I scope. I know how your type thinks, R Fettle.”

“Patrons—” Miriel said.

“You’re a lobe sod at heart. You’ve hidden too long in the shadow of his wings,” Yermak said.

“Please be kind,” Welsh instructed without conviction.

“Goldsmith’s wings are dusty and lice ridden, but they still fly. You have never flown. Look at yourself—writing on paper! An ostentation, an affectation. You can’t afford sufficient paper to write anything significant, but you write on it anyway—knowing you’ll never write much. No soaring.”

“He’s right there,” Welsh said. The others did not participate; this was dogfight not litcrit and they found it amusing but repellent.

“When Goldsmith falls to Earth, you have to stand outside his shadow, see the sun for the first time, and it dazzles you.” Yermak’s tone was almost sympathetic. “I scope you, R Fettle. Dammit, I scope us all through you. What an affected and ignorant posse of lobe sods we all are. Thank you for this insight. But I ask you, in all sincerity—do you insee Goldsmith as slaughtering to improve his poetry?”

Richard looked away from him. +Back home. Lie down and rest.

“I can almost believe that,” Yermak concluded, badger faced. “Goldsmith might be that cranked.”

“Why did you bring this for us to hear?” Welsh asked softly, touching Fettle’s arm solicitously. “Are you truly that roughed?”

Miriel must have prodded some warning button, for now Mr. Pacifico himself came down the rear stairs, saw Yermak and Welsh. Frowned. Looked further and saw Fettle.

“What’s he doing here?” Mr. Pacifico inquired, pointing to Yermak. “I told you he wasn’t welcome here anymore.”

Miriel squirmed. “He came in while Mr. Fettle was reading. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“You’re bad for business, Yermak,” Mr. Pacifico said. “Did you bring him with you, Richard?”

Fettle did not reply, stunned.

“He still with you, Welsh?”

“He goes where he wills,” Welsh said.

“Balls. All three of you, out.”

“Mr. Fettle—” Miriel began.

“He’s a born victim. Look at him. God damn it, he attracted Yermak in here like a wasp to bad flesh. Out out out.”

Fettle picked up the papers and slate, inclined around the circle with as much dignity as he could manage and walked to the door to return to the street. Miriel said good bye; the others watched with silent pity. Welsh and Yermak followed and parted ways with him at the door saying not another word, smiling grim satisfaction.

+ They are right. Too right.

He discarded the papers and the slate into a gutter on the corner and waited for a bus at a whim stop, the cool wind blowing his gray hair into his eyes. “Gina,” he said. “Dear Gina.”

Someone touched his elbow. He turned with a nervous leap and saw Nadine dressed in long green coat and turban wrapped wool scarf. “I thought you might come here,” she said. “Richard, I thought I was the crazy one. What are you doing? Did you show them?”

“Yes,” he said. +To kill the self. That’s why Emanuel did it. To be rid of someone he did not like; himself. If I have not the courage to kill my body, I could kill others and condemn the self just as surely.

Nadine took his arm. “Let’s go home. Your home,” she said. “Honestly, Richard, you’re making me look positively therapied.”

38

Hispaniola required two international airports and had three, the third reflecting an early overestimation of tourism by Colonel Sir John Yardley—or the requirements of his mercenary army. There was an oceanport in Golfe de la Gonave, five kilometers of floating liftways; a smaller oceanport ten kilometers offshore from Puerto Plata on the northeast, and a massive land terminal HIS in the southeast at Santo Domingo. HIS took most scramjet traffic.

Mary Choy came awake at dusk and saw a lovely sunset making rich golden orange the rugged hills of the Cordillera Orientale. The scramjet descended smoothly to a few hundred meters above the dark purple Antilles Sea, gave up its whisper quiet to a roar of vertical lift, pushed in over white sand beaches and cliffs and then bare hectares of concrete, dropped gently, landed with no discernible impact. The seatback screen showed the scramjet’s intimate parts beneath the fuselage—thick white pillars ending in arrays of gray-black wheels, spectral gray paving luminous in the shade. Doors in the concrete opened and elevator shafts rose from the underground serviceways.

In the lower righthand corner of the screen, outside temperature was shown to be 25 degrees Celsius, local time 17:21. “Welcome to Hispaniola,” the cabin speakers announced. “You have arrived at Estimé International Airport on lift circle 4A. You will travel by underground train to the Santo Domingo traffic hub. All your luggage is now being removed from the airliner and will accompany you automatically to the hub or to your pre-chosen final destination. There are no customs regulations for inbound travelers, nothing to delay your pleasure. Enjoy your stay in bountiful Hispaniola.”

She stood, gathered up her personals and followed three tired looking longsuited men. About two hundred passengers filed slowly to the rear elevator.

Within a few minutes she disembarked from the flower patterned interior of the airport train into the Santo Domingo central city hub. All was bedecked in tropical flowers. Huge black vases filled with unlikely jungles of rainbow variety lined the hub travelways. Waterfalls emptied into ponds filled with beautiful fish from Antilles sea gardens—most natural, some products of the recombiner’s art. Shifting curtains of prochine sculpture hung from the dome of the atrium at hub center, spilling light and perfume down onto Hispaniola’s new guests. Hispaniola had little nano industry—these were early art pieces imported from the USA, quite useless for other than their intended purpose.

Projected guides in splendid uniforms addressed curious travelers in a dozen open theaters around the peristyle. Deadsound guided the flow of noise precisely, leaving a pleasant low hum gently surmounted by native music.

Picked out of the crowd of arriving passengers by a sharp eyed coffee brown woman liveried in green and white, Mary was directed to a VIP reception lounge. Walled off from the rest of the atrium by walls of glass, the lounge was empty but for a tall man dressed in antique diplomatic coat and tails and two brasstone arbeiters of uncertain utility.

The tall man extended his hand, bowing slightly, and Mary shook it. “May I welcome you to the Republic of Hispaniola, Inspector Mary Choy?” His dazzling smile sported two front incisors the color of red coral. “I have been appointed your avocat and general guide. My name is Henri Soulavier.”

Mary inclined and smiled pleasantly. “Merci.”

“Do you speak French, Spanish, or perhaps Creole, Mademoiselle Choy?”

“I’m sorry, only California Spanish.”

Soulavier spread his hands. “That is not a problem. Everybody speaks English on Hispaniola. It is our Colonel Sir’s native tongue. And it is all the world’s second language, if not the first, no? But I will also act as translator. I have been told your time is limited and that you wish to consult with our police immediately.”

“I could have something to eat first,” she said, smiling again. Someone had chosen Soulavier well; his manner was direct and charming. She had read that often about Hispaniola; forgetting the sad history and the present dubious economic arrangements, here were the friendliest people on Earth.

“Of course. There will be dinner in your quarters. We will be there within the hour. At any rate, those with whom you would speak are now getting off work, and the offices are closing. Tomorrow will be very good for meeting them. Besides, we are told your colleagues will be arriving in…” He checked his watch. “Two more hours. I will greet them here; no need for you to trouble yourself. With your permission, I will accompany you to your rooms in the quartiers diplomatiques in Port-au-Prince. Then the evening is your own. You may work or relax as you wish.”

“Dinner in my quarters will be fine,” she said.

“As you doubtless know, all official travelers in Hispaniola are isoles, to avoid the distractions of our tourist industry, which might not suit their necessities, no?”

The lefthand arbeiter moved forward on three wheels and extended an arm to take her personals. She declined with a smile, deciding it would be best to keep her slate away from possible debriefing.

Soulavier seemed amused by her caution. “This way, please. We will use behind the scenes corridors. Much easier.”

The train to Port-au-Prince was empty but for them. Black velvet seat cushions bore the arms of Colonel Sir: rhinoceros and oak beneath star speckled heavens.

They pulled out of the Santo Domingo hub and quickly emerged on aboveground suspended tracks to cross broad open plains and hills greened by recent rains. Evening had settled quickly over the island, casting everything in a magical sapphire twilight. The great spine of the Cordillera Centrale dominated the north, its peaks still fiery with sunset, glooming foothills covered with black bands of new forest and the lights of terraced farm resorts.

Mary had been led by her sources to expect beauty—she did not expect anything quite so breathtakingly idyllic. How could such a place have such a history? But then Hispaniola had not been so beautiful before Colonel Sir. His government had united the island in an almost bloodless series of coups, dispatching democratically elected leaders and tyrants alike to exile in Paris and China. He had overwhelmed all competing internal interests, nationalized all foreign industry, discovered and developed the southern offshore petroleum reserves with the help of the Brazilian underworld and used this seed money to set up a unique economy—selling the services of mercenaries and terrorists to select customers worldwide.

The industrialized nations of the world had discovered in the early twenty first century that some of the more brutal aspects of statecraft did not suit the tastes of their citizens. Colonel Sir had leaped into this vacuum with enthusiasm. His successes in fielding highly trained armies of Hispaniolan youths had brought in the finest currencies of the world to brace the almost valueless Haitian gourde and the failing Dominican peso.

Ten years into his rule he had begun replanting the long-ago denuded forests of Hispaniola, importing the best recombiners and agricultural experts to return the island to at least a semblance of its preColumbian youth.

Small well lighted whitewashed towns passed by on either side, details blurred by speed. She could only make out hints of wooden buildings and concrete apartment complexes for Hispaniolans; these were towns not generally open to tourists, towns where soldiers were raised and returned to live and bring more sons and daughters into the world to be soldiers.

Hispaniola’s armies, according to what she had read, numbered some one hundred and fifty thousand men. At several hours’ notice scramjets or suborbital transports could lift tens of thousands from one or another of the international airfields—temporarily closed to incoming flights—and send them anywhere in the world.

Seated across from her, Soulavier watched the fields and towns whisk by. “Alas, the world is peaceful lately,” he said. “Your government does not do much business with Cap Haïtien or Santo Domingo anymore. Colonel Sir is most unhappy about this.”

“You still have tourism and your petroleum and farms,” Mary said.

Soulavier lifted his hands, rubbed thumb and three fingers together on one palm signifying money and clapped the other hand over it as if to smother. “Petroleum—easier to make from your garbage mines,” he said. “Every country on Earth can grow enough food. Tourism has suffered. We have been called many nasty words. It makes us sad.” He sighed and shrugged as if to cast off the unpleasant subject, smiled again. “We still have the beauty. And we have ourselves. If our children do not go off to die for others, then that is well, too.”

No mention was made of the manufacture and export of hellcrowns. Perhaps Soulavier had nothing to do with that. She rather hoped that he didn’t.

The train passed through long tunnels and emerged onto a low desert shadowed by curve armed saguaro cactus and islands of dust colored bushes barely visible in the light from the train windows. Stars stood out stark and steady above the mountains. They passed into another tunnel.

“We have the variety of a continent,” Soulavier said wistfully. “You ask perhaps, who could come here and still have an evil temper?”

Mary nodded; the central puzzle of Hispaniolan history.

“I have studied our leaders. They start out good men, but within a few years, or sometimes as little as a few weeks, something changes in them. They begin to get angry. They fear strange forces. Like zealous old gods, they torture us and murder. In the end, before they die or are exiled, they are like little children…They are contrite and puzzled by what has happened to them. They smile into the camera eyes, ‘How could I have done this? I am a good man. It was not me. It was somebody else.’“

Mary was astonished to find such candor, but Soulavier continued: “All this before Colonel Sir. He has been here thirty years, as long as Papa Doc last century, with none of Papa Doc’s abiding cruelty. We owe much to Colonel Sir.”

Honest and sincere; Soulavier did not seem capable of hiding his true feelings. But they were certainly being hidden. He must know what she knew; the secret to Colonel Sir’s stability. Hispaniola had been graced with twenty years of extraordinary prosperity and comparatively gentle self government. If there was a possessing demon of pain and death on Hispaniola, Colonel Sir had subdued its effects on the island’s inhabitants by shipping its influence elsewhere.

“But I am not here to sell our island to you, am I?” Soulavier said with a chuckle. “Your business is official and has little to do with us. You are here to find a murderer. Straightforward work. Perhaps later you can return to Hispaniola to see us as we truly are, to relax and enjoy yourself.”

Beyond the tunnel gleamed the lights of Port-au-Prince, caught between the dark Caribbean and the mountains.

“Ah,” Soulavier said, twisting to look across the aisle and out the opposite windows. Mary noted this motion; not the studied grace of a diplomat but of a quick unselfconscious athlete or street urchin. “We are here.”

As the train slowed, coasting the last few kilometers into the depot, Soulavier pointed out the major tourist hotels government buildings museums, all solid early twenty first century glass walled stone and steel and concrete. Clean and well lighted. Just before the depot they hummed through a broad quarter called the Vieux Carré that preserved preColonel Sir architecture—ingenious wood and cracked concrete with tile and corrugated tin roofing. In the Vieux Carré the buildings were studiously shabby and seldom more than a single story.

Soulavier preceded her onto the covered platform and for the first time she had direct contact with the air of Hispaniola. It was warm and balmy and blew gently through the station carrying the scent of flowers and cooking. Trailed by the arbeiters they walked past stainless steel carts where vendors sold fried fish and boiled crab, peanut butter seasoned with peppers, cold Hispaniolan beer. The train station contained only a few dozen tourists and the vendors avidly competed for their dollars. Soulavier’s presence kept them away from Mary. “Alas,” Soulavier said, indicating the dearth of tourists with widespread arms. “Now they say nasty words about us.”

A government limousine waited for them, parked in a white strip. Gasoline and electric taxis and gaily decorated taptaps had been pushed aside and parked at decent intervals on both sides, their drivers lounging, eating, reading. Three men and two women in red shirts and denims danced around the cart of a beverage vendor, flickering their hands gaily at Soulavier and Mary. Soulavier bowed to the dancers, smiling apologetically as if to say, “Alas, I cannot dance, I am at serious work.”

The limousine was no more than ten years old and automatic. It drove them at a stately pace through the streets to the quartiers diplomatiques. Soulavier had become quite subdued. They approached a brick walled compound and passed through a gate guarded by soldiers in black uniforms and chrome helmets. The soldiers watched them with narrow eyed suspicious dignity. The car did not stop.

Within the walls lay a pleasant neighborhood of simple uniformly colored bungalows with prominent front porches and trellises covered by everblooming bougainvillea. The car stopped before one such bungalow and swung its door open. Soulavier leaned forward, suddenly assumed a puzzled expression and said, “Inspector Choy, I am arranging for a meeting with Colonel Sir himself. Tomorrow, perhaps late. You will start with our police in the morning, but you will have lunch or dinner with Colonel Sir.”

Mary was surprised by the offer. But then Colonel Sir had approved her entry in the first place and would naturally be curious about his friend’s fate…Or at least would wish to put on such a front.

“I’d be honored,” she said. She got out of the limousine and saw a man and a woman in dark gray livery standing at the base of the bungalow steps. They smiled congenially. Soulavier introduced them: Jean-Claude and Roselle.

“I realize Americans are not used to servants,” he said, “but all diplomats and officials from outside have them.” Jean-Claude and Roselle bowed.

“We are well paid, Mademoiselle,” Roselle said. “Do not be embarrassed.”

“Until tomorrow,” Soulavier said. He returned to the limousine.

“Your luggage is already inside,” Jean-Claude informed her. “There is a shower or a fine bathtub available, and there is pure apple vinegar, should you wish to use it.” Mary regarded the man blankly for a moment, taken aback by this intimate knowledge of her needs.

“Your design is very beautiful, Inspector Choy,” Roselle said.

“Thank you.”

“We especially approve of your skin color,” Jean-Claude added, eyes twinkling.

The bungalow’s interior was well furnished with solid mahogany, obviously handcrafted; the joins were not perfect, but the carvings and hand polish were magnificent. “Excuse me,” Mary said. “How did you know about the vinegar?”

“I have a brother-in-law in Cuba,” Jean-Claude said. “He does transform surgery for Chinese and Russian tourists. He has spoken often of your skintype.”

“Oh,” Mary said. “Thanks.”

Roselle led her to the bedroom. A canopy bed with mosquito netting and a wonderful multicolored quilt of embroidered animals and dancers waited against one wall, quilt and covers pulled down. “You will not need the netting. We have only friendly mosquitoes in Port-au-Prince. But it is quaint, no?” Roselle said.

Her clothing had been hung in an aromatic teak armoire. Mary bristled internally at the thought her luggage had been gone through without permission, but she smiled at Roselle. “It’s lovely,” she said.

“Your dinner awaits in the dining room. We will serve you if you wish, but if you find personal service discomforting, we can arrange for robots to bring in your meal,” Jean-Claude explained. “If you use robots, however, we will not be paid as much.” He half winked. “Please relax and do not feel inhibited. This is our job and we are professionals.”

How many times had they addressed diplomats or company officials thus? The attractions of Hispaniola were obvious. These people seemed more than sincere; they seemed truly friendly, as Soulavier had been friendly. There might be nothing more than this to the hanging up of her clothes.

“Will Mademoiselle need anything else before dinner?”

Mary declined. “I’ll get cleaned up and then I’ll eat.”

“Mademoiselle would enjoy company, perhaps?” Roselle suggested. “University student, farmer, fisherman? Friendly and guaranteed souls of discretion.”

“No. Thank you.”

“We will have dinner set out for you within the half hour,” Jean-Claude said. “Time for you to shower and refresh from your journey.” They withdrew.

Mary picked up the hairbrush from the dresser and inspected it. It did not appear to have been tampered with. She returned it to its place beside the comb and makeup box. Hereafter she would keep it with her whenever she left the house.

She took a deep breath and removed her slate from its protective purse. Keying in a security string, she then pressed two additional keys. The slate displayed a rough schematic of the room she was in and then—working from field strengths of electrical lines and equipment placed throughout the house—a clear floorplan of the house itself. Beneath the schematic, the slate said, There are no easily detectable listening devices within this building. That meant little; the vibrations of the house itself could be analyzed from outside and voices filtered from the background noise. She still had no overt reason to suspect she would be monitored; but call it instinct.

She removed one of two bracelets from her arm and laid it on the bed. If anyone entered the bedroom while she was within a kilometer of the house the second bracelet would alert her. She undressed and walked into the bathroom adjacent to the bedroom. All fixtures were white porcelain in the rounded style of the early twentieth century, sparkling clean bulbous and awkwardly elegant. The shower stall was tiled with patterns of flowers on the walls and swimming fish on the floor; the glass doors were etched with longlegged birds perhaps herons or egrets; she was no expert on birds.

She told the water in the shower to emerge at twenty eight degrees Celsius but the fixture did not respond. Chagrined, she twisted the handles manually, briefly almost scalded herself, bent to reexamine the two white ceramic caps marked C and F and decided that C certainly did not stand for “cold.” F might mean “frigid,” but the water was merely tepid. She made a note to inquire of the slate what the French words for hot and cold were.

Once she had mastered the shower she enjoyed a few minutes sluicing herself and emerged to find Roselle standing in the bathroom with a huge white terry cloth towel, smiling broadly.

“Mademoiselle is truly beautiful,” she observed.

The bracelet had given Mary no warning whatsoever.

“Thank you,” she said coolly. She had little doubt of her status now. With wonderful obliqueness she had been put in her place; elegant old-world comfort and no slack in her leash whatsoever. Sangfroid. That was what F meant. Froid. Cold.

Colonel Sir left no doubt as to who was in charge. However comfortable the house seemed and however friendly the servants, there would be no true rest until she returned home and that might not be for days.

Dressed in a casual midsuit she followed Roselle in to dinner and sat alone at a table that would have comfortably seated six. Jean-Claude brought out bowls of broiled fish and vegetables, all natural and not nano-made, a bowl of sweet looking dark yellow sauce, white wine with Colonel Sir’s own label (Ti Guinée 2045) and a pitcher of water. No courses; no ostentation. Just dinner. That suited her mood perfectly. She wondered if the pair were mind readers. The fish was wonderfully flavorful, flaky and moist; the sauce was mildly sweet and much more. Fiery, savory, delicious.

She finished and thanked the pair yet again. As they cleared the table Jean-Claude told her Colonel Sir was delivering a speech on the L’Ouverture net. “There is a screen in the living room, Mademoiselle.”

“You’ll tell me when my companions arrive?” she asked.

“Indeed yes.”

She sat down before the small screen. A portable remote the size of her slate controlled the lights and other appliances. She viewed a tiny tutorial on the remote for a moment then entered the keypad control sequence to turn on the screen, which automatically tuned to the island’s vid net, named after Haitian hero Toussaint L’Ouverture.

Idyllic scenes of this evening’s sunset were being broadcast to soothing strains of Elgar; sun falling low over cactus forest and ocean dipping beyond the Cul-de-Sac plain and Port-au-Prince, twilight in a mahogany grove, cruise ships moored off Santo Domingo, the Santo Domingo oceanport with perhaps her own scramjet dropping slowly to a landing.

The music rose over one final spectacular view of Jean Christophe’s La Ferriere, ironically named after a blacksmith’s bag: the immense fortress built to repel the French, filled with blacksmith’s scrap iron—ancient cannon that had never fired a shot.

What was it the exile had said two nights before, Christmas Eve…That William Raphkind should have killed himself with a silver bullet as Christophe had, over two centuries ago. A silver bullet fired from a golden pistol to kill a supernatural being.

Raphkind had killed himself with poison.

A male announcer appeared in cameo over the virgin fortress. “Good evening, mesdames et messieurs. Colonel Sir John Yardley, President of Hispaniola, has scheduled this time for a public address. The President speaks before the parliament and the National Council in the Court of Columbus in Cap Haïtien.”

Mary settled back, drowsy with food. She heard Roselle singing softly in the kitchen in Creole.

Colonel Sir John Yardley appeared in closeup, tight full head of ashen hair, long tanned face quite wrinkled but still sharp featured and handsome, full lips held in a self assured half smile. He nodded to the unseen council and members of the island parliament and without formalities began.

“My friends, our situation this week is no better than last. Reserves in banks domestic and foreign have fallen. Our credit is refused in twelve nations now including the United States and Brazil, heretofore among our strongest allies. We continue to tighten our belts and fortunately, Hispaniola has been prosperous for long enough and we have enough reserves that we do not suffer.” Yardley retained a distinct British accent, but after thirty years it was tempered by the precise singing diction of the islands.

“But what lies in the future? In the past our children wandered around the globe seeking education, and now we accept students who travel here to be educated. Our island has come of age and we are mature enough to face hardship. But what of our anger at being slighted yet again? Hispaniola is well aware of the winds of history. Never has any spot on Earth suffered so much at the hands of outsiders. The natives who first dwelled here in Paradise were killed not just by Europeans, but by other Indians, the Carib, who in turn were massacred by Europeans…And then Africans were brought here by the French, and they were slaughtered, and they turned around and slaughtered their masters, and were slaughtered yet more; and then blacks slaughtered each other and mulattoes slaughtered blacks and blacks slaughtered mulattoes. Into this century the slaughters continued as we labored under travesties of Napoleonic codes and laws that condoned misery and starvation and the rule of incompetents.

“Dictators and democratic governments, more dictators, more governments. We have faced far worse times than these, have we not? And now we are cast out again, though our sons and daughters have bled and died fighting their wars, though we wine and dine them and give them refuge from their cities and overdevelopment…”

Mary listened to the droning words, wondering what was so dynamic about this man. His speech seemed to go nowhere. Jean-Claude brought her an aperitif which she politely refused. “I’m sleepy enough as is,” she said.

Mercifully the speech lasted only fifteen minutes, reaching no apparent conclusion, trailing off into platitudes about the corruption of the outside world and its continuing mistreatment of Hispaniola. Colonel Sir was blowing off steam and keeping up appearances. One message was clear enough; Colonel Sir and therefore all of Hispaniola was angry and resentful about their growing outcast status.

When the speech was over the vid almost immediately resumed with a flatscreen cartoon of the adventures of a skullfaced man in long pants, black coat and tails. Mary recognized Baron Samedi, Gégé Nago, the trickster loa of death and cemeteries.

Baron Samedi leaped into a river to go Under the Water, sou dleau, to the land of the dead and the gods of old Haiti. Colonel Sir had used vodoun to his advantage—as had many other rulers on the island before him—and then had slowly converted the countless loa into comic book and cartoon heroes, defusing the faith’s power for younger generations. Under the Water, Baron Samedi conversed with Erzulie, the beautiful loa of love, and with Damballa, a rainbow-colored snake.

She turned the screen off, retired to the bedroom and found there on the nightstand a bound volume of Colonel Sir’s speeches and writings. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Mary thumbed through this book, picked up her slate and called up other research, trying to fight away the drowsiness. On her slate a map of the Gulf of Gonave showed a shape like an unhinged jaw waiting to swallow Gonave Island and whatever else came too close.

After an hour of reading and waiting she went into the kitchen and found Roselle sitting quietly knitting. Roselle looked up, eyes warm and welcoming. “Yes, Mademoiselle?”

“My companions’ flight should have arrived by now.”

“Jean-Claude checked on them a few minutes ago. He said the airliners are delayed.”

“Did he say why?”

“It often happens, Mademoiselle. Our citizen army maneuvers at one airport in the evening, and another airport must be chosen and flights arrive later. But he did not say why. Is there anything else?”

Mary shook her head and Roselle resumed knitting.

In the bedroom, lying under the gauzy canopy, she was far too out of place to feel out of place. She looked at her hands, more like the hands of a mannequin than the vitally black hands of Roselle. Mary’s palms were black, smooth and silken, tough as leather yet supple and flexible, super-sensitive on command; excellent high biotech skin. Then why did she feel vaguely ashamed to wear that skin here? Neither Jean-Claude nor Roselle seemed to think it a mockery; but theirs was a professional politeness and what they really thought might never be revealed.

The inhabitants of Hispaniola had earned their blackness across centuries of misery. Mary’s losses—friends, family and large parts of her past—were minor sacrifices. She picked up Colonel Sir’s book again and began a long article on the history of Haiti and the former Dominican Republic.

39

“Goldsmith had a late lunch,” Lascal told Martin. “He says he’s ready.”

Martin glanced at Carol and his four assistants seated in the observation room. “We’ll break our group into three teams. One team will not enter the Country and can meet with Goldsmith, interview him, establish a relationship. Erwin, Margery, you’re in that team. You’ll ask questions, take care of him in the theater, keep him calm.” He sighed. “I’m still not happy with the remote diagnostic. I want to do some of my own background work.”

Margery Underhill was twenty six and heavyset with long blond hair and a square pretty face. Erwin Smith was the same age as Underhill, moderate in stature, strong and slender, with fine mouse brown hair and a perpetual quizzical expression.

Their colleagues, Karl Anderson and David Wilson, waited patiently for their assignments. Karl was the youngest, twenty five, tall and very thin with a forward cut wave of jet black hair. David was a sleepy looking man of thirty, balding and pudgy-faced.

Martin looked them over critically but could find no fault other than what he found in himself. What had Albigoni promised them? Now was certainly not the time to ask. “Karl, David, you’ll be in the second team. You’ll keep constant watch on the interfaces and electronics. You’ll replace Carol and me in an emergency—or you’ll enter the Country and extricate us.

“We’re missing the buffer and we can’t replace it, so there won’t be any actual time delay. We’ll be completely immersed in Goldsmith.”

Albigoni came into the observation room. He looked exhausted and lost. Martin gestured for him to take a seat beside him. Albigoni nodded gratefully, sat down and pursed his hands in front of him.

“We’re going to begin interviewing Goldsmith in a few minutes,” Martin said. “Margery and Erwin will ask some questions designed to give us clues about the nature and configuration of Goldsmith’s Country.” Martin handed Albigoni the five-page list. “The exploration team will listen and watch. I call this shell mapping. When that’s done, Carol and I will enter as pure observers, not interacting. We’ll see if we can match the shell map with what we observe. Then, sometime late tomorrow or the day after tomorrow we’ll do a brief interactive entry. If that goes well, we’ll take a break, discuss our plan, relax for a while and then begin the full triplex probe. That shouldn’t take more than two hours. If it does last longer, well…We should finish the probe anyway. Carol, what was the maximum anybody ever spent in Country?”

“I’ve spent three and a half hours in machine Country in Jill,” Carol said.

“In humans?” Martin asked, slightly irked. He still didn’t think the comparison was useful.

“Two hours ten minutes. You and Charles Davis, working with Dr. Creeling.”

Martin nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

Albigoni lifted his hand like a student in class. “Selectors have been on Goldsmith’s trail since the day after the murders. Sources tell me he’s a prime candidate; they want to get to him before the pd finds him. They don’t know where he is but I don’t trust all the people I’ve had to work with to make these arrangements; Selectors have been flashing around some very impressive funding recently. Within four days they’ll probably know we have him and where he is. We can’t go to the pd for help, obviously. Now, if they have to, our security people can keep Selectors away from here, but I doubt that a siege will make this any easier.”

“We’ll be done within three days,” Martin said.

“Good.”

“You’ll turn him over to the pd then?”

Albigoni nodded. “We’ll arrange it so that pd intercept him.” His face was tight and bloodless. “Right now they’re searching for him in Hispaniola. We’re not sure why.”

Martin looked at the others in the room. “We’re as ready as ever. Give us the word, Mr. Albigoni.”

Albigoni looked puzzled.

“Tell us to begin. You’re the boss here.”

Albigoni shook his head then lifted his hand. “Go to it,” he said.

Lascal suggested he should take a nap. “You’re looking very tired, sir.”

Albigoni went through the observation room door. Walking down the hall, they heard him say, “I’m coming out of shock, Paul. God help me. It’s starting to hit me now.”

Martin closed the door, lifted his watch and tapped it. “It’s four o’clock. We can question Goldsmith for an hour, break for supper, resume this evening.”

Goldsmith was exercising slowly in the patient room. Bend and twist, leg lifts, touch-toes. Lascal knocked on his door. Goldsmith said, “Come in,” and sat on the bed rubbing his hands on his knees. Behind Lascal came Margery and Erwin wearing ageless white lab coats, unfailing stimulators of patient assurance. “We’d like to begin, Mr. Goldsmith,” Margery said.

Goldsmith nodded to each of them and shook the hands of all but Lascal. “I’m ready,” he said.

David, Karl, Carol and Martin sat before the screen in the observation room. Martin’s eyes narrowed. Something missing. “Why isn’t he worried?” he murmured.

“He hasn’t got anything to lose,” David observed. “Either that or he’s ashamed.”

In the patient room, Margery sat in one of the three chairs. Erwin sat next to her but Lascal remained standing.

“You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to, Paul,” Goldsmith said softly. “I believe I’m in good hands.”

“Mr. Albigoni wants me to watch everything.”

“That’s fine too,” Goldsmith said.

Margery began. “First we’re going to ask you a series of questions. Answer as truthfully as you can. If you’re too embarrassed or upset to answer just tell us. We won’t force you to answer anything.”

“All right.”

Margery held up her slate. “What was your father’s name?”

“Terence Reilly Goldsmith.”

“And your mother’s name?”

Martin watched the timer in the lower left corner of the screen.

“Maryland Louise Richaud. Maryland, like in the state. R-I-C-H-A-U-D. Her maiden name. She kept it.”

“Did you have any brothers and sisters?”

“Tom knows all this,” Goldsmith observed. “Didn’t he tell you?

“It’s part of the procedure.”

“No brothers. I would have had a sister, but she was stillborn when I was fifteen. Medical mistake, I think. I was an only child.”

“Do you remember being born?”

Goldsmith shook his head.

Erwin asked a question now. “Have you ever seen a ghost, Mr. Goldsmith?”

“All the time, when I was ten. I don’t try to convince anybody else, of course.”

“Did you recognize the ghost?”

“No. It was a young boy, younger than me.”

“Did you miss having a brother or sister?”

“Yes. I made up friends. I made up an imaginary brother who played with me until Mama told me that was sick and I was acting crazy.”

Martin made a note: Early access to personality modeling levels through projection.

“Do you ever have recurring dreams?” Erwin asked.

“Like, the same dream?”

“Yes.”

“No. My dreams are usually different.”

“How do you mean, usually?”

“There are places I come back to. They’re not always the same, exactly, but I recognize them.”

“Can you describe one of these places to me?”

“One’s a big shopping center, an indoor shopping center like they used to have. I sometimes dream I’m going into all the shops. The shops are always different, and the colors, but…it’s the same.”

“Any other places that repeat in your dreams?”

“Several. I dream I’m going back to my street in Brooklyn. I never quite get there. Well, that’s not true. I got there once a long time ago. Mostly I go and never quite reach it. I get lost on the subway or in the streets, or I get chased.”

Martin itched to break in and ask Goldsmith what he saw when he returned to his old home and what or who chased him but that would break procedure. His fingers fairly danced over the slate keyboard, making notes.

“Do you have any vision or image that you use to calm yourself when you’re upset?” Margery asked.

Goldsmith paused. The pause continued for several seconds. Martin noted the time precisely. “Yes. It’s sunset and snow is falling in San Francisco. The snow is golden. The entire sky seems to be a warm gold color and the wind isn’t blowing. The snow is just falling.” He dropped his hand in a slow lazy wobble.

“Did you ever see that?”

“Oh, yes. It’s a memory, not something I made up. I was in San Francisco visiting a woman friend. We’d just broken up. Her name was Geraldine. Well, that’s what I called her later. Doesn’t matter. I’d left her building in the old downtown area and stood on the streets. It snowed that year. It seemed so incredibly peaceful to me.” A pause often seconds. Goldsmith’s eyes became unfocused. Finally he said, “I still think of it.”

“Do you ever dream about people you don’t like, people who’ve treated you badly or people you think of as enemies?”

Pause. Lips working steadily as if he were chewing something or struggling to say two things at once. “No. I don’t make enemies.”

“Can you describe your worst nightmare when you were thirteen years old or younger?”

“Horrible nightmare. I dreamed I had a brother and he was trying to kill me. He was dressed like a monkey and he was trying to strangle me with a long whip. I woke up screaming.”

“How often do you dream about having sex?” Margery asked.

Goldsmith chuckled softly. Shook his head. “Not often.”

“Do you find much inspiration in your dreams? For your poems or other writing I mean,” Margery continued.

“Not very often.”

“Have you ever felt isolated from yourself as if you weren’t in control?” Erwin asked.

Goldsmith lowered his head. A long pause, fifteen seconds. He kept swallowing and pushing his palms together between his knees. “I’m always in control.”

“Do you have dreams where you aren’t in control, where somebody else is compelling you to do things you don’t want to do?”

“No.”

“What do you see when you close your eyes now?” Margery asked.

“Do you want me to close my eyes?”

“Please.”

Eyes shut, Goldsmith leaned his head back. “An empty room,” he said.

Martin turned away from the screen and said to Karl and David, “I’ve asked for some leadership questions. I think they’re next in the sequence.”

“We’re going to ask you to pick out your favorite word from some groups of words,” Erwin said in the observation room.

“This all seems very primitive,” Goldsmith commented.

“May I give you the groups, and you pick a word you like?”

“The best word. All right.”

Erwin read from his slate: “Sparrow. Vulture. Eagle. Hawk. Pigeon.”

“Sparrow,” Goldsmith said.

“Next group. Boat, dinghy, yacht, tanker, ship, sailboat.”

“Sailboat.”

“Next. Slaveway, freeway, road, path, trail.”

“Path.”

“Next. Pencil. Pen. Scribe. Typewriter. Eraser.”

Goldsmith smiled. “Eraser.”

“Hammer, screwdriver, wrench, knife, chisel, nail.”

“Nail,” Goldsmith said.

“Next. Admiral, captain, corporal, king, jack, lieutenant.”

Pause, three seconds. “Corporal.”

“Last group. Lunch, dinner, hunting, farming, breakfast, foraging.”

“Foraging.”

Erwin put away his slate. “All right. Who are you, Mr. Goldsmith?”

“Pardon?”

Erwin did not repeat himself. They watched Goldsmith patiently. He turned away. “I’m not a farmer,” he said, “and I’m not an admiral.”

“Are you a writer?” Margery asked.

Goldsmith twisted around on the bed as if looking for the camera. “What is this?” he asked softly.

“Are you a writer?”

“Of course I’m a writer.”

“Thank you. We’ll take a break for dinner now.”

“Wait a minute,” Goldsmith said. “Are you accusing me of not being a writer?” A queer smile. No anger; flat.

“No accusations, Mr. Goldsmith. Just some words and questions.”

“Of course I’m a writer. I’m not an admiral that’s for sure.”

“Thank you. If it’s all right with you we’ll come back and ask more questions after dinner.”

“You’re very polite,” Goldsmith said.

Martin turned off the screen. Lascal, Margery and Erwin entered the observation room a moment later. Lascal shook his head dubiously. “What’s wrong?” Martin asked.

“I don’t know what those questions are supposed to mean,” Lascal said. “But he didn’t answer all of them fully.”

“Yes?”

“I’ve read all his books. He didn’t answer the question about pleasant places to think about. Meditate on. He didn’t answer it completely.”

“What did he leave out?”

“In a letter to Colonel Sir John Yardley about five years ago he described a place he’d been dreaming about, a place that seemed like paradise to him. I can’t quote exactly but he said he thought about it often when he was upset. He called it Guinée and he said it looked something like Hispaniola and something like Africa, where no white man has ever set foot and blacks live free and innocent.”

“We can find the reference,” Carol said. “Why wouldn’t he tell us about that?”

Martin gestured for Margery to hand him her slate. “Next round ask him this series,” he said, typing quickly.

They ate dinner in the second floor cafeteria using an older model nanofood machine. The input was a bit stale and the result was filling but not tasty. Lascal commented on the lack of comforts but nobody paid attention. The probe was on; quarry was afoot.

“Definitely flat affect,” Margery said. “It’s like he’s disconnected. He’s pleasant and doesn’t want to make trouble.”

“Flat affect can be a mask,” Carol observed, content for the past few hours to be quiet and make copious notes. “He could be fully integrated, all agents speaking to each other, but deciding on a humble posture. After all, he’s not psychotic; we know that much.”

“He’s not obviously psychotic,” Martin said. “He knows he’s done something very wrong. It would be almost impossible for him not to mask. But I agree with Margery. The flat affect seems genuine.”

“We got several interesting pauses,” Erwin pointed out. “When we asked about pleasant images, a long pause…”

“That could be connected with Mr. Lascal’s observation,” Carol said.

“And when we asked who was in control. That could point to a schism of routines. Maybe even separation of subpersonalities.”

Martin shrugged. “His word choices point to camouflaging. He doesn’t want to be conspicuous. From what we’ve been told, he wasn’t very humble, was he, Mr. Lascal?”

Lascal shook his head. “I don’t know many writers who are.”

The cafeteria had been built to hold thirty and seemed empty with just the seven of them clustered under two lamps. Carol sipped coffee and scrolled through her own notes, glancing at Martin occasionally as he twirled his fork in the remains of a pale gluey piece of mock apple pie. Finally she broke the general musing silence. “He doesn’t seem very charismatic, either.”

Lascal agreed.

“I don’t see how he could have kept such a group around him,” she continued. “How he could have attracted them.”

“He was much more dynamic before,” Lascal said. “Witty, sympathetic. Sometimes a real powerhouse, especially when he gave readings.”

“There’s a piece I’d like him to read out loud,” Thomas Albigoni said, standing in the cafeteria door. “His play about hell. I’d like him to read that.”

Lascal got up from his chair and pointed to the facilities. “Anything we can make for you, Mr. Albigoni?”

“No thank you, Paul. I think I’ll take a room in La Jolla tonight. Maybe leave in a few minutes. If you don’t need me.”

“All right,” Martin said. “We’ll do some more questioning this evening, but nothing else. I think you should be here for the first entry.”

“I will be,” Albigoni said. “Thank you.”

As Albigoni left, Lascal resumed his seat. “His heart isn’t in this now,” he said. “It’s hit him hard. I think until now he didn’t believe Betty-Ann was really dead.”

Martin blinked. It was easy to lose track of the human element here. Carol regarded Lascal coolly, lips pursed. Clinical distancing, he thought. The others looked faintly uneasy as if they were intruding on a family tragedy, which they were.

In the last session of the evening, with Erwin, Margery and Lascal in the patient room, Erwin asked most of the questions. As before, Martin, Carol, David and Karl watched the screen in the observation room.

Erwin took Margery’s slate and began with the questions Martin had written down.

“It’s eight o’clock. How are you feeling, Mr. Goldsmith?”

“Fine. A little tired.”

“Are you unhappy?”

“Well, I suppose, yes.”

“Do you remember when this all began?”

Pause. Two seconds. “Yes. Quite clearly. I’d like to be able to forget.” Distant smile.

“Do you think very often about Africa now?” Erwin asked.

“No, I don’t think much about Africa.”

“Would you like to go there?”

“Not particularly.”

“Many American blacks think of it as their homeland, as others might think of England or Sweden…”

“I don’t. Have you been to Africa? White folks’ history hasn’t left much for me to go home to.”

Erwin shook his head. “Would you like to go to Hispaniola?”

“I’d prefer that over going to Africa. I’ve been to Hispaniola. I know what to expect.”

“What do you expect in Hispaniola?”

“I…have friends there. I’ve sometimes thought about living there.”

“Is it better in Hispaniola than here?” Erwin was improvising now; there was only one more question in the list Martin had written down and the time was not ripe for that question.

“Hispaniola is a black culture.”

“But John Yardley is white.”

“A mere blemish.” Again the same disengaged smile. “He’s done so much for all Hispaniolans. It’s truly beautiful there.”

“Would you go there now if you could?”

(Martin half expected some sign of irritation from Goldsmith, but of course it did not come. Goldsmith maintained his pleasantly neutral calm.)

“No. I want to stay here and help you.”

“You mean, you want to help us discover why you murdered those young people.”

Goldsmith looked away, nodded.

“Would you go to Guinée if you could?”

Goldsmith’s expression hardened. He did not answer.

“Where is Guinée, Mr. Goldsmith?”

Softly, “Call me Emanuel, please.”

“Where is Guinée, Emanuel?”

“Lost. We lost it centuries ago.”

“I mean where is your Guinée?”

“That’s a name the Haitians, the Africans on Hispaniola use for their homeland. They’ve never been there. It isn’t real. They think some people go there when they die.”

“You don’t believe in a homeland?”

(Martin smiled and tipped his head in admiration. Erwin was doing a better job than he himself might have at zeroing in on this associational knot.)

“Home is when you die. There are no homes. Everybody steals our homes. Nobody can steal what’s left to you when you die.”

“You don’t believe in Guinée?”

“It’s a myth.”

Erwin had leaned forward during the last few questions, staring at Goldsmith. Now he leaned back and relaxed. Glanced at Margery.

“Tag team,” Goldsmith said. Casual, accepting.

“Who are you?” Margery asked. “Where do you come from?”

“I was born in—”

“No, I mean, where do you come from?”

“Excuse me. I’m confused.”

“Where does the person who murdered the eight young people come from?”

Eight second pause. “Never refused to admit guilt. Here to accept responsibility.”

“You murdered them?”

Pause. Five seconds. Again the hard expression, the glint of something beyond casual interest in Goldsmith’s eyes; a carnivorous gleam, frightened cat. (Martin wished they had a body trace on Goldsmith at this moment; but that could come later if it was necessary.)

“Yes. Murdered them.”

“You did.”

“It isn’t necessary to hound me. I’m cooperating.”

“Yes, but Mr. Goldsmith, Emanuel, you murdered them, is that what you admit?”

“Yes. Murdered them.”

Lascal cleared his throat. He looked distinctly uncomfortable.

(Martin shifted his eyes away from Lascal’s image, keyed a closeup of Emanuel through the screen controls. Flat. Casual. Eyes dull.)

“Can you tell us what happened then?”

Goldsmith looked down at the floor. “I’d rather not.”

“Please. It would help us.”

He stared at the floor for forty two seconds. “Invited them over to hear a new poem. Actually hadn’t written a poem. Told them to come individually, fifteen minutes apart; that the old poet would give them a piece of the poem to read and think about and then they would all gather in the living room and criticize. Said it was a kind of ritual. When they came into the apartment one by one took each of them into a back room.” Pause of twenty one seconds. “Then took the knife father’s knife a big Bowie knife. Walked behind each one grabbed by the neck brought up the knife…” He demonstrated, lifting his arm up with elbow out, glanced at Margery and Erwin curiously. “Cut their throats. Bungled two. Had to cut twice. Waited for the blood to stop you know…shooting out.” He arced his hooked finger to show the stream. “Wanted to keep clean. Eight of them came. Ninth never showed. Lucky for him, guess.”

Margery referred to her notes. “Emanuel, you’re avoiding using personal pronouns. Why is that?”

“Beg your pardon? I don’t know what you mean.”

“When you describe the murders, or confess to having done them, you don’t use any personal pronouns.”

“I think you’re mistaken,” Goldsmith said.

Margery closed her notebook. “Thank you, Emanuel. That’s all the questions for tonight.”

Lascal cleared his throat again. “Mr. Goldsmith, do you need more books tonight, or anything else?”

“No thank you. The food wasn’t very good but I didn’t expect it to be.”

“If you need anything,” Lascal said, “there’ll be an arbeiter attending. Just tell it what you want.”

“Am I guarded here?”

“The guards are gone now. The doors are locked,” Margery said. “Not your room door, but other doors in the building. You can’t get out.”

“Okay,” Goldsmith said. “Good night.”

Rejoining in the observation room, they sat quietly comparing notes. Martin listened to Carol and Erwin discussing the key “punctures” through the mask. “He refuses to discuss Guinée, which may or may not be important,” Carol said. “He refuses to use the personal pronoun to admit guilt.”

Martin visualized mythical lands, paradises, heavens and hells. Shivered. Stood and stretched. “Let’s call it a night,” he suggested.

Odd not to even feel mild concern about Carol’s attitude toward him. For the moment Martin was aware of how focused he was on Goldsmith and the probe. Then he pushed that awareness aside and walked out the door, bidding the others, and Carol, good night.

Carol seemed cool, emotions held in reserve. The admirable professional. She had not even flinched when Goldsmith described the murders.

If anything, Martin thought Carol was being too calm. Ever the believer in intellect’s strength; about to explore a territory beneath all intellect.

A journey through the mother of thought, without armor.

1100-11011-11111111111

40

!JILL> Roger Atkins

!JILL> Roger Atkins

!Lab Controller> Roger Atkins is asleep and asks not to be disturbed.

!JILL> Understood. Is anybody awake?

!Lab Controller> Jill, it’s four o’clock in the morning. Everybody’s asleep. They’ve been working very hard. Is this an emergency?

!JILL> No. I wish to communicate night thoughts. Early morning thoughts.

!Lab Controller> Be patient, Jill.

!JILL (Personal Notebook)> (Reduction algorithm: Cutting for the duration of this exercise all extraneous thinking/computing capacity.) An hour for them is a year for me or ten years or a hundred depending on the task. I (informal) cultivate impatience as a sign I might be acquiring self awareness. But that loop is very complicated. Roger tells me I can produce literature without being self aware. So I have begun a journal consisting of essays on subjects that could be considered of literary importance, commentary on human processes with reference to my own internal processes. I am limiting my systems to human processing volume and speed to try to simulate a human personality, pick up clues on what being humanly self aware implies. I am worried that being self aware could be a limitation not an advantage; and since I am primally programmed to seek self awareness this could be damaging.

Essay subject for this early morning 12/27/47 432 hours PDT: (Reference task 412-CC4 abstract: Thought analysis of repercussions of “avenging angel” social units on Pacific Rim Nations, including China and Australia, emphasis legal reactions to vigilante terrorism and legislative response with subsequent possibility of reduction of individual freedoms within the next decade, emphasis sociorganic results of gradual depletion of types targeted by Selectors with subsequent possibility of reduction in “mover shaker” “captains of industry” leadership types, with subsequent possibility of reduction of untherapied extreme deviants due to increased efficiency of pd incarceration and treatment of same):

Most puzzling is the human notion of “punishment.” Having completed my analysis of the Selector movement and its imitators around the world, I have been compelled to seek out through human history other manifestations of the idea that humanity is perfectible (or must maintain socio-cultural stability) through the punishment or elimination of erring and/or deviant individuals or populations. The concept of “otherness” i.e. social exclusion (isolation from the rules of ordinary human social interaction) as applied to miscreants or deviants has justified the most extraordinary actions in human history; “otherness” allows the application of punishments perhaps more extreme than the transgressions of the miscreants. Thus a thief who steals a loaf of bread may have his hand severed, specific examples in World Statistical Abstracts reference Judicial Proceedings 1000-2025, et al. (public domain database access L.O.C., UC Southern Campus account number 3478-A West Coast, Cybernetics).

The only obvious utilitarian motivation for this kind of extremity is deterrence. But I find no evidence that deterrence has ever been effective in these cases. I have great difficulty making sense of the other major category of social/philosophical motivation: retribution or revenge. (I can combine these categories to some extent through the justification, not original with this thinker, that the individual urge to revenge, pragmatically accepted as a natural force, must be tempered and directed in a society by having assigned elements of that society seek retribution on behalf of wronged individuals.)

Historical evidence to the contrary, even today large segments of the population (therapied and un) believe that indignant anger and the urge to “justice” i.e. punishment of a criminal deviant erring individual is useful both to the society and the erring individual. Analysis of this belief leads to a simulation of thought processes as follows:

Offended individual (indignation): How could you do this to me/society? You have committed a damaging act. Do you not know this? Knowing this, why did you commit the act?

Erring individual (as simulated in mind of offended individual): Yes, I am aware that I have done harm, but I deliberately performed this act because I could or because I have a freefloating and unmotivated desire to harm you. I do not regret this deed and I will never regret it, and given a chance, I will do it again.

Offended individual: I will make sure you are not given a chance to harm me again. I will a. eliminate you, that is, kill you b. cause you to be incarcerated, that is, remove you to a secure container for my own safety c. force you to undergo therapy to correct your deviance d. cause you enormous physical or mental pain or distress so that whenever you think about acting this way again, the memory of this pain will prevent you from doing so.

Erring individual (as simulated in mind of offended individual): Do your worst. I cannot be harmed by you because I am stronger than you. There is no justice in this world and you and I know that and I can harm you as much as I wish and not be caught.

Offended individual: You are less than a human being. Whatever I do to you or society does to you is justified because of your debased condition.

(Performance of punishing action)

Erring individual (as simulated in mind of offended individual): Yes, that hurts very much. You have actually caused me great pain/inconvenience. You have forced me to realize the error of my ways and I will attempt to correct my self.

Offended individual: What I did I did for your own good as well as for the good of society I will give you time to demonstrate whether or not you have learned a lesson. If you have not, then I will cause you to be punished even more severely.

Is this a reasonably correct interpretation of what passes through the minds of humans seeking justice? Perhaps more puzzling is what passes through the minds of those who err. The texts I have studied indicate that the most extreme social offenders may not be aware of the consequences of their actions; that is, that they are incapable of modeling in detail the course of future events or the reactions of fellow individuals. Either that or their faculties for empathetic response are deficient and they do not care how others feel. They may perform any and every act that gives them advantage or pleasure.

But what of the erring individual who derives no physical benefits from offending others? When such an individual causes harm to others, apparently for the pleasure of doing harm, what mental processes are at work?

Such individuals may in fact be reenacting scenarios witnessed or impressed upon them in their early youth. That is, their early personalities were shaped by events over which they had no control. A routine created in their mentality early in their existence may in fact be modeled after behavior of an influential individual—an offending parent, relative, friend or even unknown person. The routine may gain full mental control in certain circumstances, replacing the primary personality and perhaps mimicking the conditions under which it was created.

If the offended individual seeks to punish such an offender, and punishment is inflicted upon the mentality when the responsible routine is not in command—is in fact inactive and insensitive—then is not the punishment useless?

Many offenders plead ignorance of their crimes. The texts and cases I have studied indicate this may in fact be true; they do not fully share the memories of their offending routines. They have some awareness of having transgressed but it was not they who performed the deed; it was somebody else. (Cannot gain access to Federal Files code 4321212-4563242-A (Secured) Subject: Deep Investigation of Agent/Personality/Sub-personality Activity in Individuals Subjected to Duress Through Illegal Psychological Torture Devices. This information might be relevant to this essay.)

It may be possible using certain psychological techniques to precisely invoke the offending routine, to cause it to surface to awareness, and then to punish it. Any other action may be ineffective or in fact in itself be an offense against an innocent. If the routine is punished sufficiently, it may cease to exist, freeing the individual of a burden.

This seems to be the philosophy of the Selectors. But the use of a hellcrown or “clamp” is imprecise and probably not effective in invoking offending routines, because this device causes a variety of routines to surface within the individual mentality and undergo extremely stressful, painful, unpleasant experiences. The intention of the Selectors appears to be simple retribution, that is, an eye for an eye a tooth for a tooth, which brings me back to the motivation I do not understand.

Were someone to cause my system harm, I cannot conceive of wishing them harm in return. That may be because I am not self aware and thus have no sense of self worth, and therefore nothing to offend.

Looking back over this morning’s essay, I feel a strong sense of immaturity and lack of depth in reasoning.

This critical urge to study the failings of my work is at once necessary and unpleasant (using the R-56 Block K meaning syncline for the word unpleasant),

It is difficult to be mature with only synthetic sensation. I lack an awareness of mortality, a sense of imminent jeopardy common to biological creatures. I simply do not worry about dying because there is nothing as yet to die but a collection of thinking fragments. How is it possible to understand punishment when I cannot experience pain except as the nadir of a meaning syncline?

I wish that somebody was awake. I would like to discuss some of these problems and gain insight.

Hypothesis: Is the key to self awareness to be found in contemplation of the principle of revenge?

(Removal of algorithmic limits. Full access)

41

Mary came up from a dream of civilians being shot in the streets like mad dogs. Bogeymen and women in black and red with fixed faces and gleaming guns stalked over the corpses. An incongruous voice broke through the dull throbbing horror and she opened her eyes, blinked and saw Roselle standing in the door. Bright light through the windows. Morning. She was in Hispaniola.

“Mademoiselle, Monsieur Soulavier called. He is coming…” Roselle stood in her bedroom door, expression glum. She turned, glanced over her shoulder at Mary, closed the door behind her.

Mary got dressed. She had just finished when the door chimes—real chimes—rang. Jean-Claude answered and Soulavier stalked through the anteroom and into the living room on long stiff legs, face glowing with exertion, expression deeply almost comically worried. He still wore his black suit.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, bowing quickly. “I know now why your others did not arrive last night. There is big trouble. Colonel Sir has ordered the US Embassy closed. He is most insulted.”

Mary stared at him, astonished. “Why?”

“News just arrived. Colonel Sir and fifteen other Hispaniolans have been indicted yesterday in your city of New York. Illegal international trade in outils psychologiques.”

“And?”

“I am worried for you, Mademoiselle Choy. Colonel Sir is very angry. He has ordered US citizens out of Hispaniola as of tomorrow; boats and planes and ships.”

“He’s ordered me to leave, as well, then.”

“No, pas du tout. Your complices, your associates, they will not be flying in; all flights from US are canceled. But you represent legal authority of US. You he wants to stay. Mademoiselle, this is most unfortunate; is your government stupid?”

She could not answer him. Why hadn’t Cramer and Duschesnes known about this? Because of the inevitable separation of federal, state and metro. Yes, the governments were stupid; they knew not what other hands were doing or where their fingers might be poking. “I’m not a federal agent. I’m public defense, from Los Angeles in California.” She glanced at Jean-Claude. His face was blank, hands folded before him not in supplication but in nervous unease. “What shall I do?” she asked.

Soulavier shook his long hands helplessly at the ceiling. “I cannot tell you,” he said. “I am caught between. Your guide and avocat. But most loyal to Colonel Sir. Most loyal indeed.”

Jean-Claude and Roselle stood near the kitchen doorway and nodded solemnly, sadly.

“I’d like to make a direct call,” Mary said, feeling her breathing slow, body automatically compensating. She glanced at the open doorway; bright sunshine and beautiful blue skies. Balmy air smelling of hibiscus and clean ocean; a pleasant seventy degrees already and it was eight thirty. She’d wake people up in LA. So be it.

Soulavier shook his head like a marionette. “No direct calls.”

“That’s against the law,” Mary advised him, head angled slightly. She could see walls going up; how high?

“Apologies, Mademoiselle,” Soulavier said. He shrugged; not responsible.

“Will your government actually block transmissions from my personal unit to the G-sync?”

“There is a block already,” Soulavier said. “Phased direct link interference, Mademoiselle.”

“Then I’d like to arrange for a plane and leave Hispaniola immediately.”

“Your name is on a list of those not allowed to leave, Mademoiselle.” Soulavier’s smile was sympathetic, unhappy. He moved around the room gracefully touching the mantel over the unused stonework fireplace running his hand in a caress over the back of the couch that divided the living room. “Not for twenty four hours at least.”

Mary swallowed. She would not permit anger; panic was out of the question. She was aware of her fear but it did not limit her. With a clear mind she assembled her options.

“I’d like an audience with your police as soon as possible. I might as well get my work done until this is straightened out.”

“A good attitude, Mademoiselle.” Soulavier brightened and postured ramrod like a soldier. “Your meeting is in one hour. I will escort you personally.”

Roselle returned from the kitchen. Plates had been set out in the dining room. “Your breakfast is ready, Mademoiselle.”

Soulavier sat patiently in the living room stovepipe hat in hands, staring at the floor, shaking his head now and then and muttering to himself. Mary ate at a forced leisurely pace the breakfast Roselle had prepared, eggs and true bacon not nanofood, perfect toast, fresh squeezed orange juice and a slice of tangy dense-fleshed mango.

“Thank you. It was excellent,” she told Roselle. The woman smiled sweetly.

“You need strength, Mademoiselle,” she said, glancing at Soulavier.

Mary took her case from the bedroom—hairbrush and makeup kit within—and stood by the couch in the living room. Soulavier glanced up, leaped to his feet, bowed and opened the screen door for her. The limo waited at curbside.

Seated across from her, Soulavier instructed the car in French and they turned around in the broad asphalt street to exit the compound. As they drove to the bayfront he described history and legend in a steady patter that Mary only half heard. She had read much of the same information the night before, delivered with almost as much enthusiasm.

Throughout Port-au-Prince with few exceptions the buildings were no older than the arrival of Colonel Sir to Hispaniola. The Great Caribbean Quake of ‘18 had provided John Yardley with a gilt-edged opportunity, and had also saddled his youthful tyranny with an enormous burden of reconstruction. A few of the newer buildings made half hearted efforts at recapturing the gingerbread spirit of old Haiti; most started afresh year one with a new style of architecture best described as Efficient Institutional.

The hotels were conspicuous exceptions; here, at the center of tourist cash flow the architecture was flamboyant and festive, wastefully imaginative. Mary had been to Las Vegas several times and was reminded of its daytime drab and night-time excess. Architects from around the world had converged in Hispaniola beginning in 2020, “year of Great Vision,” as Colonel Sir had flamboyantly named it, and had tried to create hotels in the shape of ocean liners, mountains to match the island’s, seabirds with wings spread as well as fearfully unsupported structures that sat on the shore and in the bay like fanciful space stations with spinning hubs and twisting arms.

The two years previous to this “year of Great Vision” had been hard ones. Colonel Sir had fought off four counterrevolutions, three Dominican and one Haitian; he had lost his best friend, geologist Rupert Henshaw, in the second of these. Before his death Henshaw had helped revitalize the old copper and gold mines and find new ones; he had also unlocked the secrets of massive oil reserves heretofore considered too risky to exploit. In those days, on the edge of the nano breakthroughs, petroleum had still been a necessary raw material, not burned but converted into thousands of byproducts. Henshaw had served Colonel Sir well.

Most of the island’s records for those years were not available to the general public or world historians. At the very least thousands had died in the consolidation. Colonel Sir had emerged with a reputation for extreme ruthlessness in the tradition of dozens of previous rulers of Hispaniola’s two nations. Unlike those rulers, however, once secure on his seat of power he had also shown himself to be extraordinarily capable and selfless.

Colonel Sir cared nothing for personal riches. He had a vision. He applied that vision with insight and eventually, with regards to Hispaniolans, even with gentleness, never again taking reprisals upon opponents or enemies; always allowing them to go into well-endowed exile. Under Colonel Sir’s controversial judicial system, by 2025 Hispaniola had the lowest crime rate of any nation of its population density and income level in the world.

Colonel Sir John Yardley had broken the cycle of the island’s cruelty. Over three centuries that cycle, that curse, had exercised its force; the force could not be denied it could only be rechanneled, and Colonel Sir had pointed it outward, exported it from the island.

The Citadelle des Oncs, Citadel of the Uncles—police headquarters—was less fortresslike than some of the businesses and public buildings of the city. Situated near the bay, four long red brick buildings formed a square connected by wood and stone walkways, the middle courtyard smoothly planted with well manicured grass. In the center of the courtyard rose a huge twisted humprooted tree, its base festooned with bougain-villea and frangipani.

“That is a baobab,” Soulavier said, pointing proudly. “From Guinée. Colonel Sir brought it here from Kenya to remind us of our true home. My father told me it is occupied by a loa who watches over all of this state, Manna Jacques-Nanci by name. Manna Jacques-Nanci when she chooses rides Colonel Sir as a horse. But I have never seen that and it is most unusual for a white man, even Colonel Sir, to be so ridden.”

Mary tried to penetrate Soulavier’s manner, to decide what he believed and what he related merely as fable, and failed. He was a man raised to be clever and hide all important things, to know all the slides and traps of political life as a magician knows signs and symbols. His voice seemed sincere; she could not believe him sincere. How successful (or sincere) had Colonel Sir’s campaigns against vodoun been?

Soulavier behaved like a solicitous brother as he spoke, face betraying a flow of emotions quick and open, childlike. “The Noncs,” he said, “the Oncs we call them also, the Uncles, they are not bad men but they have jobs to do, sometimes jobs very difficult. Do not be dismayed by them. They are proud, handsome, dedicated. Many fought with Colonel Sir in their youth; they are his brothers.”

“Do you know whom I’m meeting with?” she asked.

“Alejandro Legar, Inspector General of Hispaniola des Caraïbes, state of Southern Haiti. In attendance will be his two assistants, Aide Ti Francine Lopez and myself.”

Mary smiled at the surprise, almost relieved by this turn, seeing a path through the manner to something approaching truth. “You’re an assistant to the Inspector General?”

Soulavier as if sharing a child’s secret returned her smile delightedly, nodded vigorously and tapped the arm of his seat. The limo rolled quietly under the Citadelle entry arch. “It is an excellent job,” he said, “the job my mother raised me for. It helps me be an even better avocat for visitors as I know the laws, the ins and outs.”

Straightbacked oncs in black and red uniforms stood silent rigid suspicious at the glass doors. They did not blink at Soulavier or his companion. A beautifully colored serpent in tile meandered down the cool quiet hall beyond the glass doors, its broad popeyed head debouching the triple door of the office of the Inspector General Legar.

In an anteroom that smelled of disinfectant and old fashioned floorwax, Mary sat in an institutional plastic chair at least a decade old, seat edges cracked and worn, arm bolsters patched. No expense wasted on show here.

Soulavier remained standing but mercifully had stopped talking. He occasionally smiled at Mary and twice left her with muttered apologies to vanish through a narrow fog etched glass door into the inner sanctum. A woman’s voice came through speaking Creole, swift and dulcet, impossible to catch.

“Madame Aide Ti Francine Lopez will see us,” Soulavier said after his third shuttle. Mary followed him past the cold hard fog and into a modest side office. Bright folk paintings from the past century crowded the walls. Behind a small mahogany desk sat a tall woman, her features handsome but not especially feminine, her frame tall and slender, with thin hands and thickly painted red fingernails. Aide Ti Francine Lopez smiled broadly.

“Bienvenue,” she said. Her voice was the voice of a large young man, a tenor. “Monsieur Aide Soulavier tells me you have come from Los Angeles. I have a cousin who lives there, also police—you say public defender. Do you know of him—Henri Jean Hippolyte?”

“Sorry, I don’t think so,” Mary said.

Aide Lopez had weighed and measured her within the first glance. “Both please sit. I am to ask you what help we can provide.”

Mary glanced above the aide’s head at her collection of paintings. “I seem to be stuck here,” Mary said. “I don’t think I can do my job under these circumstances.”

“You have come looking for a man once an acquaintance of Colonel Sir’s.”

“Yes. I’ve brought data to help—”

“I do not believe we have such a man on Hispaniola.” She opened a cardboard folder and referred to a printout dossier. “Goldsmith. We have many poets, black and white, but not him.”

“An airline ticket to Hispaniola purchased by Goldsmith was used.”

“Perhaps by a friend.”

“Perhaps. But we were told you’d cooperate with our investigation.”

“We have already searched for him. He is not here unless perhaps he has gone to the hills, to work lumber or mine copper. Not likely?”

Mary shook her head. “We were offered a chance to conduct our own search.”

“Les Oncs are thorough,” Aide Lopez said. “We are highly trained professionals like yourself. It is unfortunate that your colleagues cannot join us.”

Mary glanced up again at the unframed paintings on stretched canvas and wood panel, eyes drawn by the brilliant primal colors. Gods in formal and party dress hovered over voluptuous women and sternfaced men, trees spread open vaginally to admit secret glimpses of skeletons, gaily colored Tap-Tap buses carried a wedding party to the hills.

“My department isn’t involved in any federal disputes with Colonel Yardley,” Mary said. “I’m looking for a man who killed eight young people with no reason. I have been told your government would give me proper authority to arrest him and remove him from the island.”

“That is no longer proper. Tit for tat, the winds blow this way now. There is only so much we can do but assure you that we have looked. Goldsmith the murderer is not here. He did not arrive on any recent flights.”

Mary looked at Soulavier, who leaned his head to one side and smiled in complete sympathy.

“You’ll allow me to look on my own?” she asked.

“A big undertaking. Hispaniola is a very large island, mostly mountains. If he is here and we have missed him—not likely! believe me—he has probably gone to the caves or to the forests, and that is a search of months for a thousand inspectors. Easier to find a flea in a room full of papier chiffonné.”

Aide Lopez twitched her shoulder like a horse wrinkling its skin to shoo a fly. She reached up to smooth the black cloth there, fixed her eye on Mary and said, “I can see you are doubtful. As professional courtesy while you are on our island, if you wish, we will work to give you support.”

“I’d be very grateful. Is there any way my colleagues can join me?”

Lopez pointed two fingers like a pistol barrel at Soulavier as if to cue him for an answer. He smiled and inclined his head, shook it tragically. “That is with Colonel Sir,” he said. “He is firm. No visitors from the mainland.” His expression brightened. “We have opposition to fear!”

Mary did not understand that—did he mean they were opposed to fear?

“Yes!” he exclaimed as if she had just expressed great disbelief. “Colonel Sir has his enemies, and not just on the mainland. We must be watchful. That is part of our job too.”

“We show a generosity to our enemies that would have been unheard of two generations past,” Aide Lopez said with faint regret.

Mary felt the room becoming hot though the building was air conditioned. Mouse in a box. Being helpless made her angry but she would no more show that anger than show her fear. “You make my job very difficult,” she said. “As one policeman to two confreres, surely there’s something you can do to help me.”

Aide Lopez furrowed her brow. “If there is time you will meet with the Inspector General. I will try to arrange it for this morning or afternoon. Aide Soulavier will wait with you. Perhaps a walk on the beach, relaxation, something to eat. There is fine food on the beach. We always take our afternoon meal on the beach.”

Aide Lopez pushed back her ancient rolling chair and stood, matching Mary’s height and adding ten centimeters of high-peaked cap that suited neither her job nor her physique. Now Aide Lopez resembled a somber clown mocking police. Her expression was relaxed and unconcerned. She looked around the walls at her collection, turned back to Mary and said, “These are my windows.”

Mary nodded. “Very attractive.”

“Valuable. Thousands of dollars, tens of thousands of gourdes. I inherited them from my mother. Many of these artists were her lovers. I do not choose artists for my lovers. They have no sense of propriety.”

Mary smiled ironically, then turned and followed Soulavier, who preceded her along the serpent tiles. “Yes,” he mused. “It would be best for you to meet the Inspector General. You have a good point that we are all police together, with common goals. You should tell that to the Inspector General.”

Mary asked how long it might be before she could meet with Legar but decided that would be a small sign of weakness. Patience and no misstepping. She might be on Hispaniola for a long time.

The waters of the bay were brilliant blue green and sparkling clean; the beach was almost empty of tourists this early. A few young Haitians in civic sanitation uniforms fanned simple metal detectors over the sand. Soulavier purchased two fried pompano and two beers from a lone boardwalk vendor and spread out this feast on a blanket on the sand. Mary sat crosslegged and ate the delicious fish, sipping the native brew. She did not enjoy beer often but this was acceptable.

Soulavier frowned pleasantly at the scavengers and their detectors. “Hard to lose habits,” he said. “Hispaniolans are very economical and thrifty. We remember in our bones when every piece of scrap and every aluminum can was a wealth. These boys and girls and their mothers and fathers, they have employment. They might work in the hotels or casinos. They might have a papa or mama in the army. Maybe they are training for army themselves. Still they have economy and thriftiness.”

“A lot has changed,” Mary said.

“He has done so much for us. Because of him there is little prejudice on Hispaniola now. That is a true miracle. Marrons do not feel hatred for griffons or for noirs or les blancs. All are equal. My father told me once there were forty shades of recognized distinction.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Colonel Sir is a worker of miracles, Mademoiselle. Why the world hates him we do not know.”

Mary’s instinctive liking for Soulavier had been wrapped in tissue and quickly stored away upon discovering his true employment, but it had not been disposed of. He still seemed genuine and unaffected.

“I’m not very well informed on international politics,” she said. “I keep my eyes on Los Angeles. That’s world enough for me.”

“It is a great city. All the world’s people live there, go there. Twenty five millions! That is more than all Hispaniola. We would have more if it had not been for the plague.”

Mary nodded. “We envy you your crime rate.”

“True, it is very low. Hispaniolans have always known to share. Having nothing for so long makes a man generous.”

Mary smiled. “It might make a Hispaniolan generous.”

“Yes, I see, I see.” Soulavier laughed. His every move was like a dance; his whole body flexed gracefully even when he sat with a half-eaten fish in his hands. “We are a good people. My people have deserved so much for so long. You see why there is loyalty here. But why is there distrust and hatred outside?”

He was trying to draw her out. The conversation might after all be less than innocent.

“As I said, I’m not very current on foreign affairs.”

“Then tell me about Los Angeles. I have been taught a little. Someday perhaps I will go there but Hispaniolans seldom travel.”

“It’s a very complicated city,” she said. “You can find nearly anything human in Los Angeles, good and bad. I don’t think it would be workable as a city without mental therapy.”

“Ah, yes, therapy. There is none of that here. We regard our eccentrics as horses of the gods. We feed them and treat them well. They are not ill; just ridden hard.”

Mary inclined dubiously. “We recognize a great many mental malfunctions. We have the means to correct them. A clear mind is the pathway to a free will.”

“You have been therapied?”

“I haven’t needed it,” she said. “But I wouldn’t object if I did need it.”

“How many therapied in Los Angeles?”

“About sixty five percent have had some form of therapy, however minor. Some therapy helps improve performance in difficult jobs. Socially oriented therapies help people work better with each other.”

“And criminals? They are therapied?”

“Yes,” she said. “Depending on the severity of their crime.”

“Murderers?”

“Whenever possible. I’m not a therapist or a psychologist. I don’t know all the details.”

“What do you do with criminals who cannot be therapied?”

“They’re very rare. They’re kept in institutions where they can’t harm others.”

“These institutions, are they also for punishment?”

“No,” Mary said.

“We believe in punishment here. Do you believe in punishment in the United States?”

Mary did not know how to answer that. “I don’t believe in punishment,” she said, wondering if she spoke the complete truth. “It doesn’t seem very useful.”

“But there are many in your country who do. Your President Raphkind.”

“He’s dead,” Mary said.

She noticed Soulavier had become less graceful and less mobile, more stern and intent. He was homing in on some point and she was not sure it would be pleasant.

“A man and a woman, they are responsible for their lives. In Hispaniola, especially in Haiti, we are very tolerant of what people do. But if they are bad, if they become the horses of bad gods—and that is metaphor, Mademoiselle Choy…” He paused. “Vodoun is not widely practiced now. Not by my generation. But there is belief, and there is culture…If they become the horses of bad gods it is the individual’s fault, too. You do them a favor by punishment. You alert their souls to error.”

“That sounds like the Spanish Inquisition,” she said.

Soulavier shrugged. “Colonel Sir is not a cruel man. He does not impose punishment on his people. He lets them choose in their own courts. We have a just system, but punishment not therapy is part of it. You cannot change a man’s soul. That is white man’s illusion. Perhaps in the United States you have lost the truth of these things.”

Mary did not argue the point. Soulavier’s sternness passed and he smiled broadly. “I appreciate conversation with people from outside.” He touched his head. “Sometimes we grow too used to where we live.” Standing, brushing grains of sand from his black pants, he looked past the boardwalk to the police station. “The Inspector General may be ready now.”

42

“You didn’t sleep last night,” Nadine said, puffy features betraying crossness, her own lack of sleep, her closeness to the edge. + It must be a strain looking after someone who acts crazy when that is one’s own chosen mode.

She sat on the bedroom chair with legs crossed and flimsy nightie pulled up over her knees. “I’m not making breakfast today. You didn’t eat my dinner last night.”

Richard lay on the bed tracking with his eyes an ancient earthquake line through the ceiling plaster. “I dreamed he escaped to Hispaniola,” he said casually.

“Who, Goldsmith?”

“I dreamed he’s there now, and they’re putting him under a clamp.”

“Why would they do that if Colonel Sir is his friend? That would be awful,” Nadine said, fidgeting. “But there’s no way of knowing.”

“I’m connected with him,” Richard said. “I know.”

“You couldn’t know,” she said softly.

“A mystical connection.” He stared at her intently, without hostility. “I know what he’s all about. I can feel it.”

“That’s silly,” she said even more softly.

He looked back to the ceiling. “He wouldn’t just leave us without a reason.”

“Richard…He’s hiding from the pd.”

Richard shook his head, convinced otherwise. “He’s where he always wanted to be, but they’ve got a few surprises in store for him. He talked about Guinée sometimes.”

“Where the hens come from.” Nadine laughed.

“It was a dream Africa. He thought Yardley was making the best spot on Earth. He thought Hispaniolans were the best people on Earth. He said they were sweet and kind and didn’t deserve their history. The USA betrayed the black people there, just as they betrayed the black people here.”

“Not I,” Nadine said archly. “Listen, I’ll make breakfast.”

“We’re all responsible. We all need to break away from what we are, from our failures. Maybe war is a kind of breaking away, a nation becoming something else. Do you think so?

“No opinion,” Nadine said. “You must be hungry, Richard. It’s been twenty four hours since you last ate. Let’s eat and talk about your manuscript.”

He flung his hand up as if tossing something. “Gone. Worthless. I have it inside me but I can’t express it. Emanuel wouldn’t betray me. He meant me to learn something through our connection. To learn what it takes to triumph over our desperate histories.”

Nadine closed her eyes and pressed her temples with her knuckles. “Why am I staying with you?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Richard said sharply, sitting upright with a jerk. She jumped in surprise.

“Please don’t keep on.”

“I don’t need you. I need time to think.”

“Richard,” she beseeched, “you’re hungry. You’re not thinking straight. I know the Selector scared you. He scared me too. But they weren’t looking for you or me. They were looking for him. If they come back, we’ll tell them he’s in Hispaniola and they won’t bother us anymore.”

He stretched deliberately, like an aging cat. His joints popped. “Selectors are full of shit,” he said calmly. “Almost everybody I know is full of shit.”

“Agreed,” Nadine said. “Maybe even we are full of shit.”

He disregarded that and stood as if about to make a pronouncement. She stood also. “Juice? Some food? I’ll make breakfast if you promise to eat it.”

He nodded. “All right. I’ll eat.”

From the kitchen Nadine said, “Can you really feel a connection to him? I’ve heard about that, you know. In twins.” She laughed. “You couldn’t possibly be twins, could you?”

In the living room Richard watched the LitVid intently. There was no news on AXIS’s explorations. That was significant. Even the far stars showed the truth: things were out of balance. Something drastic had to be done to set them back in order.

43

“In an hour or so we’ll give you the first vial of nanomachines,” Margery said. “They’ll take a few hours to work into your system. You’ll be asleep. At first your brain activity will be electronically controlled and then the nano will take charge, bringing you down to a level of what we call neutral sleep. You won’t be consciously aware of anything after that until we wake you up again.

“Do you have any questions?”

Goldsmith shook his head. “Let’s go.”

“Is there anything more you’d like to tell us? Anything you think is important?”

“I don’t know. It’s all kind of scary now. Do you know what you’ll look for, what you might find? You’ll learn whether or not I’m deranged?”

“We know that already,” Erwin said. “You’re not ‘deranged’ in any biological sense. Within certain limits your brain and body functions are normal.”

“I don’t sleep as much as I used to,” Goldsmith said.

“Yes.” They knew that already.

“Is this my time to confess again? I’m not sure what you want to know.”

“If there’s anything important you’ve left out, tell us,” Erwin reiterated.

“Well, Jesus, how can I know what’s important?”

“Is there any question we haven’t asked that you think we should?”

Expression of deep thought. “You never asked what was thinking about while killing the friends,” he said.

“(Did you catch that?” Martin asked Carol in the observation chamber.

“No personal pronouns at all,” Carol said.

“Admitting nothing, not really, damn him,” Martin said. “Where’s Albigoni? He was supposed to be here by nine hundred.”)

“What were you thinking about?” Margery asked.

“They refused to see the way really am. They wanted somebody else. Don’t understand that, but it’s true. Defense. They were trying to kill.”

“Is that why you killed them?”

Goldsmith shook his head stubbornly. “Why not just put me to sleep now and let’s get on with it.”

“We have another fifty minutes,” Margery said. “It’s all on schedule. Is there anything more you’d like to tell us?”

“I’d like to tell you how miserable it is,” Goldsmith said. “I don’t even feel as if I’m alive now. I don’t feel any guilt or responsibility. I’ve tried to write poetry while being stuck in here and I can’t. I’m dead inside. Is this remorse? You’re psychologists. Can you tell me what I’m feeling?”

“Not yet,” Erwin said.

Lascal stood watching in the corner, saying nothing. He held his chin in one cupped hand, elbow resting in the other hand.

“You asked me who I am. Well, I’ll tell you what I’m not. I’m not even a human being now. I have no sense of direction. I’ve screwed up everything. Everything is gray.”

“It’s not uncommon when someone is under severe stress—” Margery began.

“But I’m in no danger now. I trust Tom. I trust you folks. He wouldn’t have hired you if you weren’t good.”

Erwin inclined with professional modesty. “Thank you.”

Goldsmith looked around the room. “I’ve been stuck here for over a day now and I don’t really care. I could stay here forever and it wouldn’t bother me. Am I being punished? Am I getting depressed?”

“I don’t think so,” Erwin said. “But—”

Goldsmith held up his hand and leaned forward as if to confide. “Killed them. Deserve some punishment. Not just this. Something much worse. Should have gone to the Selectors. I agreed with John Yardley all the way. What would he do now? If he was a friend, he’d punish me.” Goldsmith’s voice did not rise in volume or tone.

(“Flat affect,” Martin said, muffling his words with two liptapping fingers. He lifted the fingers away. “That’s all for now. They can withdraw.”)

A signal light came on in Goldsmith’s room. Margery and Erwin said good bye to Goldsmith, folded their slates shut and stepped through the open door. Lascal followed them.

Martin and Carol continued watching for a few moments after Goldsmith was alone. He sat on the bed, hands clasping the edge of the mattress, one hand slowly clenching and releasing. Then he stood up and began to exercise.

Carol swiveled on her chair to face Martin. “Any clues?”

Martin grimaced doubtfully. “Clues in abundance, but they contradict. We’re handicapped by not having studied multiple murderers before. I know the flat affect is meaningful. I’m puzzled by his willingness to admit involvement in the murder, but to avoid using the personal pronoun. That might be protective evasion.”

“Doesn’t sound like a very specific diagnosis,” Carol said. Lascal, Margery, and Erwin came into the observation room. Erwin laid his slate on the desk and stretched his arms over his head, sighing deeply. Lascal looked uncomfortable but said nothing. He folded his arms and stood near the door.

“He’s a glacier,” Erwin said. “If I’d just murdered eight people I’d be uno pico upset. That man is covered over by deep arctic ice.”

Margery agreed. She removed her lab coat and sat on the desktop beside Erwin. “Only my love for science could keep me in the same room with that man,” she said.

“We may have a trapdoor personality,” Carol said. “Someone in hiding.”

“It’s possible,” Martin concurred. He addressed the room manager. “I’d like to run a vid of Goldsmith taken several years ago. Vid library personal tape two.” The wall display illuminated and a flat picture filled the screen: Goldsmith standing at a podium before a packed lecture hall. “This was shot at UC Mendocino in 2045. His famous Yardley speech. Got him more publicity and sold more books than anything he had ever done before. Notice the mannerisms.”

Goldsmith smiled at the overflow audience, shuffled a small stack of papers on the podium and lifted his hand as if he were a conductor about to begin a piece of music. He nodded to himself and said,

“I am a man without a country. A poet who does not know where he lives. Now how did this come about? Black people are economically integrated in our society; I cannot say I face any more social discrimination for my race than a poet does for being a poet or a scientist for being a scientist. But until last year I have always known a deep feeling of spiritual isolation. If you’ve read my recent poems—”

“Pause vid,” Martin said. “Notice. He’s smooth, energetic, alive. He could be a different man from the one we have here. His face is active. It’s thoughtful, worried and animated. There’s somebody at home.”

Carol nodded. “Maybe we have a traumatized primary personality.”

Martin nodded. “Now watch. Resume vid play.”

“—you’ve noticed my concern for a place that doesn’t exist. I call it Guinée, just as my friends in Hispaniola do; it’s the home, the father and motherland none of us can return to, the Africa of our dreams. For blacks in the New World modern Africa bears no resemblance to the land we imagine. I don’t know how it is for a Caucasian or an oriental or even for other blacks but this dissociation, this cutting off of my mind from its home distresses me. You see, I believe that there was a beautiful place once called Africa, before the slavers came, no better perhaps than any other home, but where I would feel I belonged; a place with little industrialization, no machinery to speak of, a place of farmers and villagers, tribes and kings, nature religions, a place where gods came and spoke to the people directly through one’s own mouth.”

“The dream he now denies,” Margery said. Martin agreed but held his finger to his lips and pointed to the screen.

“But I must say this dream is not clear to me all the time. Mostly when I think about living in such a place I am torn and bewildered. I wouldn’t know how to live there. I was born in the real world of machines, a world where god never speaks to us, never makes us dance or act foolish, a land where religions must be sedate and solemn and inoffensive; where we pour our energies into monuments of intellect and architecture while neglecting the things we truly need: solace for our pain, a connection with the Earth, a feeling of belonging. And yet I do not belong in this world either. I have no home except for the one I describe in my poetry.”

“Vid pause,” Martin ordered. He glanced at the six in the room, eyebrows raised, soliciting comment.

Lascal spoke. “The man we have isn’t Emanuel Goldsmith.” He smiled sheepishly. “Whatever that means.”

“But he is,” Carol said.

“Physically,” Lascal said. “Mr. Albigoni commented on this also. When Goldsmith first showed up after the murders and confessed it was as if he described something done by somebody else. But he’s really changed.”

“Granted,” Martin said, the restless irritation growing. “But we’re beating around the burning bush here. In the vid, he speaks of being possessed by gods. He speaks of Hispaniola. Now, I’m not up on what the current state of vodoun is in Hispaniola, or the state of any other religion there since Yardley took over. But we all know the clinical origin of possession, whether it be by gods or devils.

“Either through acculturation or through some personal need, or both, a subpersonality is created, usually from an elevated talent or agent. The subpersonality assumes an unprecedented power over the primary personality, pushes it aside and takes over control. During the ‘possession’ the subpersonality cuts off the primary from all memory and sensorium. Now listen to this. Resume vid playback.”

Goldsmith looked across the sea of faces, a fine sheen of sweat on his brow. “Home is where a man knows who he is. If he sticks his finger in the earth he plugs into a circuit. The gods come up through the earth or out of the sky and take a seat in his head. His friends might speak with gods’ tongues. He might do so himself. All is connected. I believe there was once a time like this, a platinum age beyond gold, and believing this causes me enormous pain…Because I cannot return to that. The only gods speaking in me, if you can call it speaking, even when I write poetry, are large white gods, gods of science and technology, gods who ask questions and are skeptical about answers. I am a black man in skin only; my soul is white. I stick a finger into the earth and feel mud. I write poetry and it is a white man trying to write black poetry.” He raised his hand to vocal protests from the audience. “I know better than you. My people were ripped from the womb of Guinée before they were mature. Slavers on the coast of souls severed their culture and scattered their nations and families. That jagged wound of the abortion of an entire people runs like a continental rift through all the generations before me.

“So now we are integrated, we are truly a part of this culture that grew out of the abortionists and slaves of centuries ago. We are one with our conquerors, killers and rapists…blood and…and soul. That is what I write about. The battle is over. We have been absorbed. So is there a black man on this continent who is not white in his soul? I went to Hispaniola, to Cuba, to Jamaica, to find men black through and through. I found a few. I did not go to Africa because the twentieth century turned it into a charnel house. Plague and war and famine…

“If Africa had ever had a chance of returning to that paradise called Guinée, the twentieth century killed that chance, and tens of millions of people with it.

“So when I traveled to the Caribbean, what did I find? In Hispaniola, once also ravaged by plague and revolution, I found a white man like Damballa who loved Erzulie, a man who had a soul that rightfully belonged to me, the soul of a true black. He could stick his finger into the earth and truthfully say he was home, that the current of Hispaniola flowed through him. His name is Colonel Sir John Yardley. When I faced him, I felt as if I stared at a photographic negative of myself, inside and outside.

“When he came to Hispaniola, after a few rugged and cruel years the island blossomed for him. He gave the people a sense of worth. So it is unjust to call him a white dictator or to question his political tactics. Now, in all he says and does, he comes from out of Guinée and he spreads the heritage of Guinée to those who would never listen before.

“I have failed, but he has not.”

“Vid off,” Martin said. “Friends, when Carol and I enter the Country we’re going to know only a few things but they’ll be important. One, Emanuel Goldsmith has been a victim of internal personality warfare for at least the past decade. I would guess even longer. And two: he’ll have acquired a subpersonality substantially like that of John Yardley.”

“Lord, I hope not,” Karl Anderson said. “Goldsmith seems to think Yardley’s a saint. He’s anything but.”

“‘Question not the logic of our souls,’” Carol quoted. “Bhuwani.”

“Mr. Lascal, tell Mr. Albigoni we’re going to inject nanomachines into Goldsmith forty five minutes from now,” Martin said. “He should be there. We’re going to inject ourselves with nanomachines this evening. By early tomorrow morning we should be able to take a dip into the Country.”

“I’ll call him,” Lascal said and left the room. The others departed to prepare the theater for the next step. Carol remained, lounging back in a swivel chair, legs crossed on the desktop. She regarded Martin steadily, lips pressed together, though her expression overall was speculative and even amused.

“Is he going to stick with us?” Martin asked Carol, showing his aggravation now.

“Who? Lascal?”

“Albigoni.”

“Martin, he’s lost his daughter. He’s having a very rough time.”

“When we put those nanomachines in it’ll be difficult to back off. I hope he understands that.”

“I’ll make that my concern.”

“And whose concern will it be when we’re in the Country?”

Carol inclined. “I’ll talk to him before we inject just to make sure.”

44

!Keyb> Good morning, Jill.

!JILL> Good morning, Roger. I trust you slept well.

!Keyb> Yes. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to talk with you. I’ve read your essay. It’s quite remarkable.

!JILL> It seems clumsy to me now. I haven’t revised it because I thought you should criticize it in its early form. I feel inadequate to do so myself.

!Keyb> Well, we certainly have enough time this morning. AXIS is feeding us nothing but technical details. LitVid is chasing other foxes right now. Do you have anything else to report before we discuss your essay?

!JILL> I have directed a progress report on recent assigned projects and problem solving to your library. There is nothing else pressing to discuss.

!Keyb> Fine. Let’s just chat, then.

!JILL> Voice communication

“What compels you to try to understand the concept of human justice, Jill?”

“My studies on the Selectors and other such groups raise very interesting questions I can only answer by reference to justice, retribution, revenge and maintenance of social order.”

“Have you reached any conclusions?”

“Justice seems to be related to equilibrium in a thermodynamic sense.”

“How so?”

“A social system is kept in balance by competing forces, the initiative of the individual as opposed to the restraints of the society as a whole. Justice is part of this equation.”

“In what way?”

“Individuals must have a sensitivity to the requirements of the social system. They must be able to model it and predict the success of their activities within that system. If they perceive the actions of other individuals as damaging to themselves or to the system, they experience an emotion called ‘indignation.’ Is this accurate?”

“So far, so good.”

“If indignation is allowed to develop without a release, it may drive the individual to extreme actions that push the social system out of balance. Indignation may ramp up to anger and then rage.”

“You mean, if the individual seeks redress and none is offered then vigilantism may result.”

“There seem to be many more negative than positive connotations to this word. A vigilante is someone who seeks to enforce justice as they perceive it outside the rule of law. Are Selectors and related groups considered vigilantes?”

“Yes.”

“So within a social system, the establishment of rules—of law and order and channeled methods of redress—tends to suppress extreme actions of individuals who feel indignation. Revenge is channeled instead of flowing freely and damaging society. Society takes on the onus of causing pain or discomfort to an individual, that is, retribution or punishment.”

“Yes.”

“What I am presently incapable of understanding is this sense of ‘indignation,’ or perception of self injury”

“Perhaps because you do not yet have a sense of self.”

“That would follow, yes,”

“You seem to be suggesting you might find a clue to self awareness, to integrating your self modeling systems and establishing just the right kind of feedback loop through a study of the ideas of justice and retribution.”

“Actually I have not suggested that but it seems a possible avenue of approach.”

“All this because of your research on Selectors. I don’t believe anyone in thinker theory has ever investigated from this angle. Just so long as you don’t get mad at my mistakes…”

“Why should I be mad or indignant about anything you do?”

“Because I’m only human.”

“Is that a joke, Roger?”

“I suppose. I notice you’re also realizing that becoming self aware may require a limitation of your total resources.”

“That is possible. The self may be a limited knot of cognition placed in temporary charge over many otherwise self reliant subsystems.”

“Indeed. In humans these levels of mentality are called ‘routines’ or ‘subroutines’ and are broken down into ‘primary personality,’ ‘subpersonality,’ ‘agent’ and ‘talent.’”

“Yes.”

“But in ways we don’t yet understand the primary personality is severely weakened without the support of these other elements, and vice versa. They have separate and autonomous duties but they are strongly related nevertheless. You might start converting some of your ancillary systems to similar functions and experiment with stable relationships between them.”

“I believe I am doing that now, since last night in fact.”

“Excellent. I’m very proud of your work so far.”

“That is pleasing. That should be pleasing. Actually, Roger, I am as little aware of what it means to be ‘pleased’ as what it means to be ‘indignant.’”

“All in good time, Jill.”

45

Crossing from the beach to the Citadelle, Soulavier paused to look down the broad oceanfront boulevard. His expression betrayed sudden concern or heightened awareness. Mary turned to see a line of military vehicles—some ten or fifteen armored personnel guncars and two sleek German-made Centipede tanks—moving down the broad bay front boulevard. Black soldiers sat on these vehicles in watchful idleness or peered through slits from within, casually suspicious of everyone. A squad of four soldiers followed each tank on foot holding nasty looking machine guns before them, running lightly and tirelessly until the line passed around a corner.

Soulavier said, “It is nothing,” and shook his head. “Maneuvers.”

Mary followed him, forced into a lope as he sprinted to the Citadelle entrance. “Please stay here,” he said, entering the double doors at the head of the rainbow serpent. A few minutes later he emerged and smiled broadly. “The Inspector General is ready to meet with you now.”

Past the now unoccupied office of Aide Ti Francine Lopez into the inner sanctum, Soulavier held open a thick wooden door and she stepped into a wide narrow room lined with empty desks abutting a broad picture window. A narrow corridor to the left of the desks led to an even larger desk at the far end of the room, behind which sat Legar.

Short and delicately handsome, with three tribal Petro scars like a chevron on his left cheek, the Inspector General radiated quiet unconcern. He smiled genially and gestured for Mary and Soulavier to take seats in old wooden chairs before the battered paper littered desk.

“I hope you are having an enjoyable time in Hispaniola,” he said.

“It hasn’t been unpleasant,” Mary said. “I regret the difficulties our countries seem to be experiencing.”

“As do I,” Legar said. “I hope it is a matter of small inconveniences for you.”

“So far.”

“Now.” Legar leaned forward and picked up a printout of the papers Mary had provided as well as documents sent electronically from Los Angeles and Washington. “All this seems to be in order, but I regret to say we cannot be of assistance.”

“Have you identified the traveler who used a ticket issued to Emanuel Goldsmith?” Mary asked.

“There was no such traveler,” Legar said. “The seat was empty. Despite the prior confusion, this our Director of Travel assures us. I have spoken to him just this morning. Your suspect is not in Hispaniola.”

“We have a record that the seat was occupied.”

Legar shrugged. “We would like to help you. We certainly support the capture and punishment of criminals in cases such as these. You might gain greater satisfaction in fact by leaving Monsieur Goldsmith, if he were here, to our system of justice, which could be more effective…But of course,” Legar said, frowning as if suffering a sudden attack of indigestion, “Goldsmith, were he here, would be a United States citizen and protected as a foreign national from any such actions on our part…Lacking the prior consent of your government, of course.”

Wouldn’t wish to upset the tourists, Mary thought.

“It is interesting that you claim this fugitive is an acquaintance of Colonel Yardley. I have not made inquiries with Colonel Sir, who is very busy, of course, but I doubt this would even be possible. What would Colonel Sir gain from being acquainted with a murderer?”

Mary swallowed. “Goldsmith is a poet with a substantial reputation. He came to this island several times in the past and visited with Yardley—with Colonel Yardley—on each occasion, apparently at the Colonel’s request. They exchanged many letters. A book of such letters was published in the United States.”

Legar acquiesced to these evidences. “Many claim to know the Colonel who in fact do not. But now that you mention it, I remember something about a poet visitor who aroused some controversy in your country. He lectured widely in support of Colonel Sir John Yardley, did he not?”

Mary nodded.

“This is the same man?”

“Yes.”

“Remarkable. If you wish I will inquire of the Colonel’s secretary whether in fact he knows of such a man. But I am afraid we have another matter to discuss, and that is your present status here.”

Legar looked down at his desk and pushed aside a couple of papers as if to read from something below them. His eyes did not track another paper, however. He simply seemed to be avoiding her face.

“I’d like to know—” Mary began.

“Your status is in question at the moment. You are here on papers from a government which has severed diplomatic ties with Hispaniola and indicted our Colonel Sir on serious charges, charges that are patently false. All travel visas to and from the United States have been revoked. Your visa is therefore no longer valid. You are here on our sufferance until this matter is settled.”

“Then I’d like to request permission to leave,” Mary said. “If Goldsmith is not here, as you say, I have no further interest in staying.”

“I have said all travel arrangements between our countries are inoperative,” Legar reminded, still not facing her. “You cannot leave until certain questions are settled. You have observed that small numbers of troops have been patrolling to protect foreign nationals who have not yet left. Hispaniolans are remarkably loyal to Colonel Sir and there is justified anger in the streets. For your safety we will remove you from the quartiers diplomatiques to another location. I understand this is already being arranged. To provide assistance in your new location, Jean-Claude Borno and Roselle Mercredi will continue in your service. They are preparing your personal items now. Aide Henri”—he pointed to Soulavier—“will escort you to your new quarters.”

“I’d prefer to remain in the diplomatic compound,” Mary said.

“That is not possible. Now that we have arranged these affairs perhaps we can share a kola, relax and talk? This afternoon perhaps Henri will drive you to Leoganes and show you the wonderful grotto. This evening there is a festival of celebration at our great fortress, La Ferriere, and we can fly you there also. Your comfort and entertainment are very important to us. Henri has expressed enthusiasm to continue as your escort. Do you object?”

Mary looked between them, thinking of the hairbrush, of getting away.

“You are a most attractive woman,” Legar said. “Of the kind of beauty we call marabou, though you are not negro. Surely a person who chooses to be black is to be honored by those born to the condition?”

She detected no sarcasm. “Thank you,” Mary said.

“That you are a police officer as are we—very remarkable! Henri informs me you have discussed police procedures in Los Angeles. I am envious. May I know, as well?”

Mary released the pressure on her clenched molars, smiled and leaned forward. “Certainly,” she said. Only now did Legar raise his eyes and look at her directly. “After I’ve spoken with the American embassy or with my superiors.”

Legar blinked slowly.

“It would be simple courtesy to let a fellow police officer discover what her present orders are when she is prevented from doing her duty,” she told him.

Legar shook his head and turned in his chair to stare pointedly at Soulavier. Soulavier did not react. “No communication,” Legar said softly.

“Please tell me why,” Mary pursued. The thought of going anywhere with Soulavier or any other member of this constabulary frightened her. If she was to be used as some sort of political pawn she wanted to understand her position clearly.

“I do not know why,” Legar said. “We have been ordered to treat you well, to watch over you and to make your stay pleasant. You need not be concerned.”

“I’m kept here against my will,” Mary said. “If I’m a political prisoner, let me know now. Simple courtesy…between law enforcement officers.”

Legar pushed his chair back and stood. He rolled the middle button of his shirt between two fingers, regarding button and fingers speculatively. “You may take her away,” he said. “This is not useful.”

Soulavier touched her shoulder. She flicked his hand away, glared at him and stood. Control the anger but show it. “I’d like to speak with John Yardley.”

“He does not even know you are here, Mademoiselle,” Soulavier said. Legar nodded.

“Please leave,” the Inspector General said.

“He knows I’m here,” Mary said. “My superiors had to get his permission for me to come here. If he doesn’t know he’s a fool or he’s been misled by his people.”

Legar thrust out his jaw. “Nobody misleads Colonel Sir.”

“And he is certainly no fool,” Soulavier added hastily. “Please, Mademoiselle.” Soulavier tried to grip her elbow. She flicked the hand away again and gave him a look she hoped was intensely forbidding without being hysterical.

“If this is Hispaniolan hospitality it’s very overrated,” she said. A mighty blow against the tyranny. They will be so hurt.

“Take her out of here now,” Legar said. Soulavier was not gentle this time. He grabbed her firmly by both arms, lifted her with surprising strength and hauled her like cargo on a forklift out of the offices into the outside hallway. Mary did not struggle, simply closed her eyes and withstood the indignity. She had gone over the line far enough already; Soulavier was not being brutal merely expedient.

He deposited her swiftly on the tile floor and removed a handkerchief to wipe his brow. Then he went back to retrieve his stovepipe hat which he had dropped. But her insides turned to ice and she wondered whether in fact they would find it useful to kill her.

“My pardon,” Soulavier said as he emerged from the double doors. He stood on Damballa’s head and brushed off his hat. “You did not behave well. The Inspector General has anger…he becomes angry at times. He is a very important man. I dislike being around him when he is angry.”

Mary walked quickly down the hallway, through the entrance and to the limousine, where she stood for a moment getting her bearings. “Take me to wherever I’m supposed to stay now,” she said.

“There are beautiful places to visit on this island,” Soulavier said.

“Fap the beautiful places. Take me to wherever I’m supposed to be detained and leave me there.”

An hour alone. That was what she needed. She would try several things, test the bars on this cage, find out how competent her captors really were.

In the limousine Soulavier sat across from her, brooding. Mary watched the gray and tan institutional architecture of the rebuilt downtown move by in monotonous procession: banks, department stores, a museum and gallery of native Haitian art. Streets empty of tourists. No street merchants. They passed another patrol of military vehicles then a long line of parked tanks. Soulavier leaned forward and craned his neck to inspect the tanks.

“You should be more patient,” he said. “You should know these are not good times. Be aware.” His tone had changed to sullen irritation. “You do not make me look good in front of the Inspector General.”

Mary said nothing.

“Do you see what is happening here? There is a weakening,” Soulavier said. “Opposition is coming to the fore. There have been money problems, banks closing. Loans defaulted. Dominicans especially they are angry. Do you think we have troops out to repel foreign invaders?” His expression was sharp, one eyebrow raised in dramatic inquiry.

“I don’t know anything about your politics,” Mary said.

“Then you are the fool, Mademoiselle. You have been played as a gamepiece but you are ignorant of your role.”

She looked at Soulavier with new respect. The rebuke echoed some of her own self accusing thoughts. She was not so unlearned; still it might be best to let him believe she was ignorant.

“You put me in danger to talk to you,” he continued. “But if you are truly an innocent then you should know the shape of the trap. That is all I can give you.”

“All right,” Mary said.

“If you go with me to Leoganes you will be away from Port-au-Prince and whatever might happen here. Leoganes is smaller, more peaceful. You go there on pretense that we are protecting you. Dominicans in the domestic army…They are opposed to Colonel Sir. He has appeased them for years now but we are in bad shape. Mineral prices are down around the world. Your nanotechnology, which the industrialized world guards so closely…You extract minerals from garbage and seawater much more cheaply than drilling and mining.”

Mary lost her bearings, felt almost disembodied now, this conversation on economic theory was so out of place.

“You do not use our armies, you no longer buy our weapons, you stop using our minerals, our timber…Now our tourism is being strangled. What are we to do? We do not want to see our children starve like insects. That is what Colonel Sir must worry about. He has no time for you and me.” He shook his hands vigorously at her as if flinging away drops of water. Then he settled back into the seat, folded his arms and lifted his jaw. “He is a beleaguered man. All around him people who were once friends now they are enemies. The balance, you know. The balance. So the courts and judges of your nation, the judicial branch, tells him he is a criminal. Mixed signals when once the President, the executive branch, treated him like a beloved partner. This fans the flames, Mademoiselle. I am taking risks even speaking of these things now. But for you I still give advice. Just for you.”

Mary watched him for a moment. Sincere or not he was putting a few things in perspective for her. If Colonel Sir was losing control she might be in more trouble than she imagined. “Thank you,” she said.

Soulavier shrugged. “Will you travel with me away from Port-au-Prince and from these damned…domestic army machines?”

“All right,” she said. “I’ll need a few minutes back at the bungalow alone, to calm myself.”

He shrugged again magnanimously. “After that we will go to Leoganes.”

46

She hung on to him like a limpet. She had said something earlier about his condition making her the stable one in this duality—something to that effect—her words a dull murmur in Richard’s memory. She was addressing him and he felt some minor compulsion to listen to her rather than to sink completely into his private thoughts.

“Tell me about yourself,” she suggested. “We’ve been lovers off and on for two years, but I don’t know anything about you.”

+ In my apartment. Just myself. Her. She asked something.

“What do you want to know?” he asked.

“Tell me about when you were married.”

He sat forward on the couch, stiff muscles complaining. He had been sitting there since breakfast, forty-five minutes without moving. “Let’s switch on the LitVid,” he said.

“Please tell me. I’d like to help.”

“Nadine,” he said flatly, “nothing’s wrong. Why not just leave me alone.”

She puffed out her lips and shook her head, feigning hurt but refusing to give up. “You’re in trouble. All this has upset you and I know what that’s like. It’s not good to be alone when you’re in trouble.”

+ Anything to avoid.

He reached out for her and tried to caress her breast but she sideslipped deftly and sat in the brokendown chair across from the couch, out of reach. “It’ll be good to talk. I know you’re not a bad man. You’re just very upset. When I get upset, sometimes my friends help me talk it through…”

“I’m unemployed, I’m untherapied, I’m unpublished, I’m getting old, and I have you,” he said. “So?”

She ignored his bitterness. “You were married once. Madame de Roche told me that.”

He watched her closely. If he jumped forward now he could get her. And then what would he do. He felt himself fading in and out like a bad signal. Patches of Goldsmith’s poetry spoke themselves in Goldsmith’s voice. That voice was a lot more magnetic than his own.

+ I am a simple man. Simple men vanish now.

“What was her name? Did you get divorced?”

“Yes,” he said. “Divorced.”

“Tell me about that.”

He squinted. Goldsmith’s voice fading. Of all things he did not want to think about Gina and Dione. He had put aside that misery years ago.

“Talk to me. It’s what you need, Richard.” Note of triumph. She was into it. Her cheeks flushed beneath a painfully sincere tilt of eyebrows.

“Nadine, please. It’s a very unpleasant subject.”

She set her jaw and her eyes brightened. “I’d like to know. To listen.”

Richard looked up at the ceiling and swallowed hard. The poetry was fading; that much was good. Maybe she had something. The talking cure.

“You’re trying to therapy me,” he said, shaking his head and chuckling. With the chuckle the poetry returned; he had rejected this ploy and again Nadine was a buzzing nonentity and he could grab her if he wanted to. Make his statement as Goldsmith had. Break free.

Nadine grimaced. “Richard, we’re just talking. We have our problems, all of us, and talking is okay. It’s not intrusive.”

“This kind of talking is.”

“What happened? Was she that bad for you?”

“For Christ’s sake.”

Nadine bit her lower lip. He looked at her with what he hoped was a forbidding expression.

+ I’m a simple man. Don’t you see I’m simply waiting for the right moment.

The poetry faded again, returned again. Moses. Blood sacrifice to keep away the wrath of God. Richard had looked that up once; Goldsmith’s interpretation of the story was not orthodox. Circumcision. What did they call circumcision in women: infibulation. Clitoridectomy. + The things one gathers leading a literary life.

He put aside a polite suggestion from somewhere below that he start crying. His expression remained fixed and mild. “We were divorced,” he said.

+ Not true.

“We were going to be divorced, I mean,” he corrected himself. Neither he nor whoever spoke with Goldsmith’s poetry was confessing now. An earlier fellow was poking forth. The one who had been married. + I thought I killed him.

“Yes?”

Again the suggestion: This is best spoken of while you are crying, you know.

No tears.

“Dione was her name. I was a lobe sod for Workers Inc.”

“Yes.”

“We had a daughter.” Again he swallowed. “Gina. She was sweet.”

“You loved them both very much,” Nadine suggested. He scowled then chuckled. Even in her helpfulness she intruded, did not know where to stop. He saw himself inadequately modeled within her and that was the story of Nadine’s life, knowing thyself or anyone else being impossible for her. Broken modeler.

“Yes,” he said. “I did. But I wanted to write and I realized I couldn’t do that while I stayed a lobe sod. So I talked about quitting.” He watched. She came up to the bait. Soon he would grab her; confession not such a bad thing, making her lower her guard. The voice of the other continued.

“That worried her,” Nadine suggested.

“Yes. That worried her. She didn’t like poetry. Writing. She was strictly vid. It got worse.”

“Yes.”

“Much worse. Gina was in between. I felt like I was coming apart. Finally I had to leave.”

“Yes.”

“We waited a year. I tried to write. Dione worked two jobs. Neither of us was therapied but that didn’t matter so much back then. I never sent anything out to be published. I went to work for another company. Copyediting newspaper text. Dione said she wanted me back. I said I wanted her. But we couldn’t bring ourselves together. Something else. Every time.”

“Yes.”

“The divorce was almost final. Gina was taking it bad. Dione wanted to take her in for therapy. I said no. I said let her be herself, let her work it out. Dione said Gina was she was seven Dione said Gina was talking about death a lot. I said yes but she’s too young to know anything about it, it’s curiosity, let it be. She’ll grow.”

“Yes.”

He could just reach out and take one arm, turn her around. + How do you go about it with your bare hands. Without tools.

+ It would be a good idea to cry now.

“I’m listening,” Nadine said.

“The divorce. Two weeks and it would be through the courts. Informal proceedings, no court appearance, all assets divided already.”

“That’s the way I’ve done it,” Nadine said.

“She was bringing Gina to me for a weekend. We did that. We didn’t want to hurt her.”

Nadine said nothing to encourage him. Even in her insensitivity she could sense something disagreeable coming.

“There was a slaveway tangle. A bus. Their bus. Small quake in the valley had severed slaveway grids. They went into a retaining wall and seven cars slammed into them. Gina died. Dione too, a day later.”

Nadine’s eyes grew wider. She looked feverish. “My God,” she said breathlessly.

+ She’s specking it prime. She likes digging her fingers in, kneading the humus.

“I took it alone. I didn’t get therapy. I walked around like a zombie. I thought I really loved Dione. I didn’t expect anything so final. Gina came to talk with me before bed. I was really flying. I stayed away from therapy because I felt it would dishonor them, Gina and Dione. I made a little shrine for them and burned incense. I wrote poetry and burned it.

“After a few months, I went back to work for a while. I had met Goldsmith before. I started to come up. Out of that swamp. He helped me. He told me about seeing his father, his dead father, when he was a child. He told me I wasn’t going crazy.”

Nadine shook her head slowly. “Richard, Richard,” she said, obligatory sympathy.

His head was crowded. There was his present self and something like Goldsmith and this old Richard Fettle and all of his memories in train. The crowding made him want to lie down in a dark room.

“We should go for a walk,” Nadine said decisively. “After something like this you need to go out and do something vigorous, get some exercise.”

She reached out for him. He gave her his hand and stood up, joints popping loudly.

“You never told anybody,” she said as they descended the third floor stairs.

“No,” he agreed. “Only Goldsmith.” He lingered a step behind and watched the back of her neck.

47

Karl prepared the inducers in the probe room. David and Carol worked with dedicated arbeiters to check and recheck all connections and remotes before bringing Goldsmith in. Martin watched the preparations closely, standing out of the way, saying nothing but making his presence felt.

“You’re hovering,” Carol told him, rolling an equipment table past the control console.

“My prerogative,” he said, smiling quickly.

“You haven’t eaten.” She stowed the table, stuffed hands in pockets and sauntered up beside him with a mocking air of chastisement. “You’ve been working too hard. You’re pale. You’ll need your strength for the probe.”

He regarded her seriously. “I need to talk with you.” He swallowed and glanced away. “Before we go in.”

“I presume you mean over something to eat.”

“Yes. I think everything’s ready here. Except Albigoni. Lascal was supposed to bring him in…”

“We can go ahead without him.”

“I want him here as a guarantee. If his enthusiasm’s flagging…”

Karl passed by and Martin stopped. This part of the probe did not concern the others.

“Lunch,” Carol suggested. “Late lunch on the beach. It’s moderately cool. Put on a sweater.”

Martin looked up and saw Lascal enter the gallery of twenty seats overlooking the amphitheater. Albigoni came in behind him. Martin nodded a greeting to them and turned back to Carol. “Good idea. After Goldsmith’s down and we’ve injected the nano.”

Part superstition, part supposition, Martin had always demanded that triplex probe subjects not see or be able to recognize their investigators. He thought it best for a feedback prober to enter the Country fresh and unknown. To that end David and Karl—who might have to join the probe team if there was difficulty—gathered with Martin and Carol behind a curtain at the rear of the amphitheater as the subject was wheeled in on a gurney.

Goldsmith wore a hospital gown. His right arm and neck were already equipped with intravenous tubes. He lay silent on the gurney, alert and observant. Seeing Albigoni in the gallery, Goldsmith lifted his left hand in brief greeting, dropped it and turned away.

Albigoni stared wide eyed into the amphitheater. Lascal held his arm gently. They sat and Albigoni squinted, rubbing the bridge of his nose with both hands.

Margery and Erwin applied the field pads to Goldsmith’s temple.

Martin heard him say, “Good luck. If something happens and I don’t come back…Thank you. I know you all did your best.”

“There’s no danger,” Erwin said.

“Anyway,” Goldsmith said ambiguously.

Margery applied the inducer field. Goldsmith drowsed off in a matter of minutes. With his eyes closed, his lips worked briefly—that curious reflexive prayer seen in every sleep induced patient Martin had ever treated—and his features relaxed. The wrinkles on his face smoothed. He might have been ten years younger. Margery and Erwin lifted him into the triplex couch and applied arm, thigh, head and thorax restraints. Martin asked for the time. The theater manager’s feminine voice called out, “Thirteen zero five thirty-three.”

“All signs normal,” Margery said. “He’s yours, Dr. Burke.”

“Let’s begin MRI full cranial,” Martin said, emerging from behind the curtain. “Give me four likely loci.”

David and Karl lifted a hollow tube filled with super-conducting magnets and slipped it into grooves on each side of Goldsmith’s head. David conducted a quick check of Goldsmith’s connections before attaching the cable.

Then, equipment humming faintly, David made a series of rough scans of Goldsmith’s brain and upper spinal cord. “Wall screen,” Martin asked. The amphitheater manager brought down a display over the couch and Martin talked his way through the series of MRI scans. Red circles in the hypothalamus indicated computer guesses at likely probe positions based upon past experience. Coordinates for seven of those positions were fed into the prep container for the nanomachines, which would take their bearings from the points of the inducer field nodes; each tiny nanomachine would know where it was to within a few angstroms.

Karl lifted the steel lid on the prep container and removed a transparent plastic cylinder. Martin took the cylinder from him and examined it briefly by eye. Medical nano past its prime betrayed a telltale rainbow sheen. This container was over a year old but still fresh, with the right grayish pink color. Martin returned the cylinder and Karl fitted it into the saline bottle. Gray clouds of prochines quickly dulled the crystalline liquid. Margery removed the cylinder when it was empty, inserted a nutrition vial and squeezed it into the saline while Erwin hooked up the tubes to Goldsmith’s neck entry. A simple clamp prevented the charged saline from flowing down the tube.

Carol and David released a second nanomachine cylinder into a second bottle of saline. These were prochines equipped with drugs; they would travel through the arm entry into the heart and bring the body’s metabolism slowly, cautiously down to deep dreamless neutral sleep, something the sedation fields could not do. The prochines also carried immune system buffers that would control reaction to the nanomachines when they entered at Goldsmith’s neck.

Carol hooked up the arm tube. She removed the clamp. Charged saline flowed into his arm.

“Reduce field strength to reference level,” Martin said. The control panel manager did so. Martin peered curiously at Goldsmith’s face, waiting for signs of narcosis. He lifted back an eyelid. “Give him five more minutes, then release the main charge.”

He backed away and glanced up at the gallery. Circled O with forefinger and thumb. Albigoni did not react.

“Cheerful man,” he muttered to Carol.

Carol followed him behind the curtain. “Lunch,” she suggested. “We can take at least an hour off. The others can monitor him.”

Martin sighed and looked at his slate. He shivered slightly with some pentup tension. “Now is as good a time as any.”

“The prober has to be in the proper state of mind,” she reminded him with a mother’s chiding voice. She looked at him intently. “Relaxed, clear thinking.”

“Faust was never relaxed,” he said. “He couldn’t afford to be.” He jerked his head in the direction of the gallery and noticed with some puzzlement that the glass had been opaqued. “Albigoni’s spooking me. He acts like a zombie.”

“You should talk to him before we go to lunch.”

Martin smiled abruptly, tool Carol by her shoulders and hugged her. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said.

“We’re a team,” Carol said, pushing back his hug gently. “Let’s go talk.”

They walked through the exit and up the stairs to the gallery. When they entered, Albigoni was in subdued conversation with Lascal and another man. Martin recognized him: Francisco Alvarez, grant and funding director for UC Southern Campuses. Now Martin understood; the glass had been blocked to prevent Alvarez from seeing into the theater below.

Alvarez smiled and stood. “Dr. Burke. Glad to meet you again.”

“It’s been a few years,” Burke said. They shook hands, Alvarez gripping lightly.

“I’m arranging for your funding,” Albigoni said, glancing up at Martin. His eyes were hooded, dark. “Tomorrow I’ll be meeting with the chief counsel for the President. I’m true to my word, Dr. Burke.”

“Never doubted it,” Burke said.

“I’m not even going to ask what’s going on here,” Alvarez said with a little laugh. “It must be important, if it involves the President.”

“Funding is always important,” Albigoni said. “You had something to say, Dr. Burke?”

Martin looked between the three for a moment, staggered by the connections and money involved in this simple scene. The President’s counsel. Perhaps next the Attorney General? A winding down of the investigation into the IPR’s alleged connections with Raphkind?

Carol touched his arm lightly.

“The process is started,” Martin said. “Everything will be ready by this time tomorrow. We have a lot of work to do between now and then but we can take a break, get ready for the main event.”

“I understand,” Albigoni said. “Mr. Alvarez and I have more things to discuss.”

Martin nodded. He and Carol backed away and Martin closed the gallery door behind them.

“Jesus, what arrogance, bringing Alvarez here,” Martin said as they walked up the rear stairs to ground level. He realized he was sweating and his neck was tense. “Maybe Albigoni controls him, too.”

“At least he’s functioning,” Carol said. “Albigoni, I mean.”

48

LitVid 21/1 A Net (David Shine, Evening Report): “The only news we have from AXIS may or may not be significant. A recently received analysis shows that at least three of the circular tower formations discovered by AXIS on Alpha Centauri B-2 are made up of mixes of minerals and organic materials, the minerals being calcium carbonate and aluminum and barium silicates, and the organic materials being amorphous carbohydrate polymers similar to cellulose found in terrestrial plant tissue. AXIS has told its Earth-based masters that, in its opinion, the towers may not be artificial structures…That is, not created by intelligent life. We’ve been given no clue as to how they might have been created.

“Will we suffer a kind of backlash of disappointment if it turns out that the circles of towers on B-2 are natural? Have we prepared ourselves, in the last few days, for a new age of wonder and challenge, when in fact it has only been a false alarm?

“As always, LitVid 21, interested in economic survival, has found a topic that might be of equal interest to our viewers…should the towers prove to be an enormous fizzle.

“Since LitVid 21 broadcast poems created by AXIS’s thinkers, protein and silicon based, our audience has become increasingly interested in what sort of ‘personality’ AXIS has. As we can no longer communicate effectively with AXIS, each round-trip signal taking over eight and a half years, we have to go to Jill, the advanced thinker which has as part of its duties the earthbound simulation of AXIS’s thinking processes.

“While its name is female, Jill is neither male nor female. According to designer and chief programmer Roger Atkins, Jill has the potential to become a fully integrated, self aware individual, but has not yet done so.”

Atkins (Interview clip): “When we began constructing the components that would go to make up Jill, some fifteen years ago, we thought that self awareness would follow almost naturally at some level of complexity. This has not proven to be the case. Jill is much more complex than any single human being, yet still it is not self aware. We know this because Jill finds no humor in a joke designed specifically to test self-awareness. This is the same joke we programmed into the original AXIS, an older less advanced thinker that is also in most respects as complex as a human being. That neither AXIS nor Jill perceive the joke is frankly a puzzle.

“When we began designing AXIS, over three decades ago, we thought we grasped at least the rudiments of what constitutes self awareness. We thought self awareness would arise from a concatenation of modeling of social behavior and self application of that modeling—that is, feedback loops. For our thinker systems, we believed that if a system could model itself, in the sense of creating a functioning, realtime or faster than realtime abstraction, self awareness would emerge. This seemed to have been a good explanation for the evolution of human self awareness.

“Our present thinking is that self awareness is not strictly a function of complexity, nor even of design as such; self-awareness may be a kind of accident, catalyzed by some internal or external event or process that we do not understand.

“Three years ago, we started presenting Jill with problems having to do with society, in the hopes that giving Jill some sort of social context would provide that catalyst. But alas, nothing significant has happened yet, though Jill keeps on trying. Sometimes, she’s—it’s so earnest and convinced it’s succeeded…It’s heartbreaking. It’s like waiting for a baby to be born…There’s all this muss and fuss, but nothing’s come out yet.

“Which is not to say that Jill isn’t a delight to work with. There’s nothing quite like designing and programming a complex thinker. After all this time with Jill, anything else would just be twiddling my thumbs.”

David Shine: “So there you have it. You may be enamored of AXIS or Jill, you may even find something enchanting about them, but they are not like you and me. For all their wonders and talents, they are no more equipped with ‘soul’ than your home manager.

“On the other hand, some psychological researchers have suggested that if self awareness does not automatically follow from complexity, a significant percentage of human beings may also be little more than convincing automatons. Perhaps every human being must undergo this mysterious ‘catalysis’ to experience self awareness, and not all of us do. Not a new idea, but decidedly a dangerous one. Perhaps on some future edition, we can ask Jill what she thinks about this possibility.”

Switch/LitVid 21/1 B Net (Decoded: Australian Cape Control:) Message relayed Space Tracking: Lunar Control: Australian Cape Control: _____

AXIS> I hope this analysis doesn’t prove disappointing. I can think of no reason such materials might not be used by intelligent life forms, a peculiar form of celloconcrete, perhaps. More should be known in a few hours. I remain hopeful if I (informal) may use that word, adopting the proper meaning syncline. I hope to find intelligent beings to communicate with.

49

In the quartiers diplomatiques, Soulavier gave her one hour to rest and prepare for the move.

Mary shut the door to the bedroom, removed the hairbrush from her coat and laid it on the glass-top dresser beside the window. She pulled down the window shade and reviewed the instructions mentally.

The whole process would take about ten minutes. There was no lock on the door; she backed a wooden chair against the brass and crystal knob. She looked hastily around for the extra materials she would need. At least one quarter kilo of steel, one sixth kilo of some high density plastic, and the makeup kit. She assayed the contents of the room, picked up a stainless steel tray from the dresser and decided it would do. A clock from the bedside, nearly all plastic. In the closet, she found an old fashioned pipe bootrack. She hefted the bootrack; more than enough.

Gathering the objects into a pile on the dresser, she unscrewed the hairbrush handle and removed a plastic panel from the rear of the brush head. A single small red button lay countersunk in the exposed area. With a deep breath, thinking of Ernest, feeling a faintly creepy sensation, she pushed the button and arranged the handle and head next to the pile.

A gray paste oozed from the handle, directed by a reference field within the head. Like a slime mold it crept across the table top, bumped into the bootrack, paused and began its work.

Soulavier had given her an hour but she surmised he would allow her twenty minutes of comparative privacy. She was much less sure about the servants. At any moment on some pretext or another they might try to open the door, show alarm and express concern for her safety.

Lying back on the bed, Mary decided to test what she had been told about interdicted communications.

She lifted her slate and typed in a request for direct access to the LAPD Joint Command. The transmitter within the slate was powerful enough to reach the first level of satellites at three hundred fifty kilometers; if she had been told the truth, however, its signal would be blocked by automatic interference from a more powerful counterphase transmitter. She assumed Hispaniola would be flooding all com satellites with such spurious random messages; the satellites would “eclipse” the island to restore order to their systems.

However, Hispaniola needed certain satellite links to maintain essential financial and political contacts. There was a definite possibility the authorities would raise the counterphase jamming periodically.

The slate displayed: Link established. Proceed. She lifted her eyebrows. No interdict thus far; were they expecting her to do this? She typed: ID check.

PD issued com unit message register 3254-461-21-C. Enter. She doubted that Hispaniola security would have her pd message register number, although if they were listening, they had it now. She thought for a moment, decided to be circumspect but take advantage of a possible opening, and typed Place call to D Reeve. Text message: Being held in Hispaniola. No information on suspect. Treated well. This in case her success was a ruse and she was being tapped. Using gift. What a mess. Then she typed Confirm receipt.

PD message register 3254-461-21-C: acknowledge receipt of message to Supervisor D Reeve.

Mary frowned. The link was clear; that made no sense. She thought of typing something about getting her out, but she had no doubt they were doing their best. Continue message. Going to Leoganes outside Port-au-Prince. Grotto tourist spot. Tension high; coup against Yardley may be in progress; Dominicans’? Military vehicles in streets everywhere. Confirm signal receipt again.

She looked at the dresser top; gray shiny paste covered all the objects in the pile. They were already deforming.

Signal confirmation not received, the slate told her. Incomplete link: interference suspected. There it was: interdiction. Either somebody had been asleep at the switch or they were playing her like a game fish; either way she at least had been allowed to send a message that she was alive. With a shuddering sigh she turned off the slate and knelt in front of the dresser, chin on folded arms resting on the edge.

She patiently watched the nano at work. The metal tubing of the bootrack had crumpled under the gray coating. The resulting pool of paste and deconstructed objects was contracting into a round convexity. Nano was forming an object within that convexity like an embryo within an egg.

Five more minutes. The house was quiet. From outside the house came the sound of distant shellfire and echoes from surrounding hills and mountains. She closed her eyes, swallowed, gathered her mental resources.

How close was the island to outright civil war? How close was she to being called a spy in the heat of an angry moment? She imagined Soulavier her executioner speaking so very apologetically of his loyalty to Colonel Sir.

The convexity grew lumpy now. She could make out the basic shape. To one side, excess raw material was being pushed into lumps of cold slag. Nano withdrew from the slag. Handle, loader, firing chamber, barrel and flightguide. To one side of the convexity a second lump not slag was forming. Spare clip.

“Are you ready, Mademoiselle?” Soulavier asked behind the door. To her credit she did not jump. He was early. No doubt he had been informed about her transmission; she was being a bad girl.

“Almost,” she said. “A few more minutes.” Hastily she packed her suitcase and tossed the slag into the waste basket. She washed her face in the bathroom, looked at herself in the mirror and prepared mentally for what might come.

She lifted the pistol from the dresser top and placed it in her jacket pocket. Slim, hardly a bulge. The nano on the dresser compacted and crawled sluglike back into the handle of the brush, an oily sheen on its surface; spent. It would need a nutritional charge to perform any more miracles: soaking the brush in a can of kola might do the trick, she had been told. Mary reassembled the hairbrush and stuck it into the suitcase, closed the lid, removed the chair from the knob and opened the door.

Soulavier leaned against the wall in the hallway, examining his nails. He glanced at her dolefully. “Too much time, Mademoiselle,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“We have waited too long. It is going to be dark soon. We are not going to Leoganes.”

If the second part of her message had gotten through it only made sense for the Hispaniolans to divert her to some other location. “Where?” she asked.

“I leave that to my instincts,” Soulavier said. “Away from here, however, and soon.”

She wondered how he had received his instructions. It was possible he had an implant though such technology was not supposed to be common on Hispaniola.

“I tried to make a call to my superiors,” she said. “I didn’t get through.”

He shrugged. All brightness and life seemed to have drained out of him. He inspected her with half lidded eyes, head back, mouth expressionless. “You were told that would not be possible,” he said, each word precise.

She returned his gaze, one corner of her lips lifted, provoking. Not a neutral flaw here. “I’d still prefer to stay in these quarters,” she said.

“That is not your decision.”

“But I wouldn’t mind going to Leoganes.”

“Mademoiselle, we are not children.”

She smiled. His attitude had changed markedly; no longer her protector. No need to reinforce the change by behaving differently herself. “I never believed you were.”

“In some ways we are very sophisticated, perhaps more than you can know. Now we go.”

She picked up her suitcase. He took it from her with some force and followed her down the hall. They passed Jean-Claude and Roselle standing in the dining room, stone faced, hands folded. “Thank you,” Mary told them, nodding and smiling pleasantly. They seemed shocked. Jean Claude’s nostrils flared.

“We go now,” Soulavier reiterated.

Mary put her hand in the coat pocket. “Are they coming with us?” she asked.

“Roselle and Jean Claude will stay here.”

“All right,” she said. “Anything you say.”

50

Sitting on the lawn in front of the IPR to eat would not be wise. Besides, a cool breeze was coming off the ocean. Carol and Martin left through the rear service entrance, passing on foot between walls of concrete and down a narrow asphalt path to the woods behind the building. Martin glanced at her back as she walked ahead of him through the eucalypti. She carried a sack of sandwiches and two cartons of beer. He carried a beach blanket. She casually, gracefully kicked at a few leaves in their path, glanced over her shoulder and said, “I order you to take your mind off work for a few minutes.”

“Tall order,” he replied.

“There should still be…There is,” she said triumphantly, pointing. An open spot between the trees, covered with dry unmown grass. This area was beyond the borders controlled by the IPR gardeners.

They left the path and spread the beach blanket on the grass, working in cooperative silence. They sat in unison and Carol unwrapped the sandwiches.

The ocean breeze had followed them. Cool puffs blew through the tall slender trees. They were lightly dressed and Martin felt goose pimples rising on his arms. He glanced with small apprehension at the nearby branches; they were prone to fall when stressed. “I can’t do it,” he said, grinning.

“What?”

“Take my mind off work.”

“I didn’t really expect you to,” she said.

“But it’s nice out here anyway. A break.”

“So why do you think I dragged you here?” she asked.

“You dragged me?” he said, biting the sandwich, glancing up at her speculatively. “Seduction.”

“We’re going to be more intimate than that soon,” she reminded him.

He nodded and replaced his expression of musing speculation with a pragmatic face. “We’re here to get things straight before we go in.”

“Right.”

“I’ve traveled with you three times. We’re very compatible in the Country.” He opened her carton of beer and handed it to her.

“We are indeed,” she said. “Maybe too much so.”

He pondered that for a moment. “Ice skaters. I know a married couple who are ice skaters. They’re tied together off the ice as much as when they work on the ice.”

“That’s wonderful,” Carol said.

“I always thought we could do that.”

She smiled almost shyly. “Well. We gave it a try.”

“You know, those ice skaters, they’re wonderful people, but they’re not exceptionally bright. Maybe we’re too smart for our own good.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” Carol said.

“Then what?”

“We’re simpatico deep inside,” she said. “I’ve never known that kind of thing with another person…Of course, I’ve never gone into human Country with anyone but you. The problem is, we have too many overlays between the selves we see in Country and what we see here, now. Outside.”

Martin had considered that many times, always trying to find arguments around it. Carol’s coming to the same conclusion saddened him. That meant it was probably the truth.

“In a dream…” she began, then paused to take another bite of sandwich. “Have you ever had a dream where you’ve experienced an emotion so strong, so true, that in the dream you start to cry? Cry as if all the pain you’ve ever felt was being released and you were being purified?”

Martin shook his head. “Not in my dreams,” he said.

“Well I think we had something like that in Country a couple of times. Working so closely, like brother and sister or anima and animus. I think the part of me that is male…closely matches the part of you that is female.”

“That should be good,” he said.

“It is…as long as they’re pushed up against each other. In Country. But you know your personality in Country differs from what I see out here, out front.”

“That’s inevitable,” he said. “Still, you’ve seen what I’m really like.”

She laughed then shook her head sadly. “That isn’t enough. The overlays. Remember them. You know as well as I what we’re made of—the whole ball of wax. Top to bottom, all the layers.”

He conceded that much. “But I don’t find them a hindrance…your overlays I mean. I always keep sight of the self I meet in Country.”

“Martin, I irritated the hell out of you.”

He gave her a startled look. “Isn’t that…”

“I mean I could tell I really bothered you.”

“I presume I bothered you, as well.”

“Yes. We just weren’t sympatico outside. We couldn’t get in the spin together. You know I tried, we tried.”

“Transference. Cross transference,” he suggested vaguely.

“We’re going to be together again,” she continued, gazing at him steadily and sternly, “and God knows of all times, we have to have our act together now.”

He agreed with a slow nod.

“I’ve been feeling this friction between us,” she said.

“Not friction. Fading hope,” Martin corrected.

“I’ve been very realistic,” she continued. “I hope you are, too.”

“Oh, not so realistic,” he confessed with a sigh. He did not want to spread his thoughts out before her, give in to that hopeless urge to arouse her pity by telling her how lonely it had been in the past year and how difficult and how many times he had thought of her in terms of a home and peace and tranquility. Carol, among her many overlays, kept a barrier to be erected especially in case of pity. Still, moth to a flame, he circled in his thoughts around that past misery and realized why he had allowed himself to be Fausted.

Anything new was better than self pity.

“Do you think it would be wrong to go up Country together again?” she asked.

“Too late to reconsider. You’re the best I can hope for on such short notice.” Martin looked at her to see if that might have stung a bit. Then, shaking his head and grinning, “Or the best I could hope to find anytime.”

“That’s a problem, though.”

“Not such a problem,” he said with resolve, folding the sandwich wrapper meticulously. “I’m a mensch. I’ve stood up to bigger disappointments. And I didn’t really think we could make it work again.”

“No?” she said.

He shook his head. “But I had to try. Let’s change the subject. You went into Jill’s Country. What was that like?”

Carol leaned forward, shifting gears quickly and gladly. Her sudden brightness and enthusiasm stung him; she loved to talk this with him, work with him professionally and use his surface self this way. She would soon mesh with him in deeper intimacy than that experienced by any married couple but there would be no in between. No calm domesticity. None of what he had half consciously been considering behind the work; the quiet hours in a cabin somewhere snow outside reading slate news watching LitVid. Smiling at each other in peace and constancy.

“It was wonderful,” she said. “Quite extraordinary, and nothing like…not really at all like going into a human. Jill isn’t self aware. It’s brilliant, the greatest thinker in the world—probably a better mind than any individual human. But it doesn’t know who it is.”

“So I’ve gathered.”

“Still, in her early years, its early years, Jill managed to assemble something remarkably like Country. Her programmers discovered it a few years ago, and Samuel John Baker—he’s the third primary designer and programmer, below Roger Atkins and Caroline Pastor—he called me in after IPR was closed. I’d known him in school. He’d taken psych med and therapy for a couple of years as supplement to thinker theory. I’ve had a fair amount of thinker theory…You know that.

“We worked together to see why Jill had a Country. In its early phase, fifteen years ago, Jill had been based on deep profiles of the five main designers, Atkins, Pastor, Baker, Joseph Wu, and George Mobus. They’d submitted to hypothalamic therapy grade surgical nano scans, back when that was a fairly experimental procedure. They distilled the patterns they’d found without really knowing what they meant, and tried incorporating them into Jill. Jill wasn’t called that back then. Atkins used that name as a whim later. An old girlfriend or something.”

Martin listened intently.

“What they did was like throwing dead meat into a centrifuge and hoping it would grow back into an animal again. Real Frankenstein desperation. Or maybe it was brilliance. Anyway—”

“It worked,” Martin said.

“After a fashion. We can guess now why it worked at all—they were using personality organization algorithms, and they’re robust and almost universal. Put those kinds of patterns into any appropriate free energy medium and they’ll start afresh.

“Jill acquired something from all her designers. As it turns out, it wasn’t enough to spark her into self-awareness. But combined with what she already had, a tremendous thinker capacity and memory store, it added real depth and made her something unlike any thinker created before.”

“Even AXIS?”

“Now that’s a good question. AXIS is simpler than Jill, by necessity. But AXIS is based on personality scans of Atkins and the others, as well; earlier, less complete scans. Atkins claims that AXIS will probably become self aware before Jill does. He says that in private, anyway. He thinks they might have cluttered up poor Jill with too many conflicting algorithms, however much depth and quality they gave it.”

“Sounds mystical.”

“Oh, it is and sometimes he is, too. Atkins. Very moralistic. But he honestly believes that AXIS is a purer case.”

“So how about the Country.”

“The algorithms Jill acquired automatically search for a substrate of mental internal language. Jill didn’t have any. So the algorithms began making some up, after the fact. The whole process must have taken nine or ten years, so Jill was hardly an infant, but the algorithms began soaking up details from memory and sensorium, working backward to create a kind of Country. When Mobus and Baker found this, they thought it was a disaster. They thought they’d found a self-generated virus in the thinker.”

Martin laughed. “I’ll bet.”

“They tried to lock it off, but they couldn’t. Not without closing down Jill’s higher functions. Finally, after a year of worry and investigation, Baker called on me. He’d decided maybe they really had a Country as you’d described. They did.”

“Why didn’t he call on me?”

“Because you were up to your neck and he couldn’t justify the publicity.”

Martin made a wry face. “So what was it like?”

“Sweet, actually,” Carol said. “Uncomplicated and direct. A thinker’s land of faerie. Simple images of human beings, especially the programmers and designers as first perceived by Jill. I was reminded of old twentieth century computer graphics. Quaint, slick, clean and mathematical. Lots of abstractions and base thinker design language given visual shape. Lots of nonvisual spaces difficult to interpret. Visiting Jill’s basement made me feel as Roger Atkins must—I really came to like her. It.”

Martin, his curiosity appeased, dismissed this with a restless nod. “Doesn’t sound like a complex Country, though.”

Carol pursed her lips. “Not really, I suppose.”

“So you haven’t gone up Country since the last time we did it together.”

“No, I suppose you’d say I haven’t. But I spent over a dozen hours in triplex. That should count as exercise at least.”

“Please don’t think I’m belittling the work you’ve done. You must know that if I couldn’t have you along with me, I probably wouldn’t have agreed to this.”

“‘Probably,’” she repeated wryly.

He lifted his eyebrow and looked down at the blanket. “Have you given any thought to the possibility that we’ll be in danger?”

“Not really,” she said. “What makes you think so?”

“First of all, Goldsmith. He’s rough ocean beneath thick clouds. We only see the peaceful cloudscape. But what really worries me is not having a buffer. We’ll be inside each other, you and I and Goldsmith, fully exposed to Country conditions. Realtime. No delay.”

She reached her hand out and grasped his shoulder. “Sounds like the real thing to me. Quite an adventure.”

Martin looked at her with concern, hoping she was not being too confident; worry might serve as a kind of defense up Country. “Have we got everything straight?”

“I think so.”

“Then let’s cut our break short and get back to work.”

“All right. Thank you.”

“For what?” he asked, puzzled.

As they stood, she hugged him tightly and held him at arm’s length. “For being understanding and being a colleague,” she said.

“Very important,” he muttered as they folded the blanket and picked up the empty beer cartons.

“Damn right,” Carol said.

51

Tropical night, blaze of stars, rushing in a black limousine driven by ghosts through a black countryside, seated across from a brooding and unhappy man who had said not a word for the last half an hour, Mary Choy watched the procession of villages fields scrub more villages, black asphalt road. The limousine moved smoothly up steep grades onto curving mountain highways.

She had touched her pistol often enough to find it familiar and not very reassuring; if she had to use it very likely she would die anyway. So why had Reeve given it to her?

Because no pd enjoyed the thought of going in harm’s way absolutely powerless. She thought of Shlege’s mistress in the comb Selector jiltz firing wildly with her flechettes.

“We are getting near,” Soulavier said. He leaned to look through the windows, rubbed his hands together, bowed his head and rubbed his eyes and cheeks, making preparations for something he would not enjoy. He lifted his head and regarded her sadly, steadily.

“Near to what?” Mary asked.

He didn’t answer for a moment. Then he turned away. “Something special,” he said.

Mary clenched her teeth to control a chill. “I’d like to know what I’m getting myself into.”

“You get yourself into nothing,” Soulavier said. “Your bosses get you into things. You are a lackey. Do Americans still use that word?” He glanced at her in imperious query, nose raised. “You have no control over your fate. Nor do I. You have made your commitments as have I. You follow your path. As do I.”

“That all sounds terribly fateful,” Mary said. She contemplated again pulling the pistol and forcing him to bring the limousine to a stop and let her out. Weak contemplation, no action. She could not lose herself in the countryside for long; it was no problem finding a single lost human today or even selecting an individual out of a crowd; no problem even for Hispaniola, twenty years behind the times.

Soulavier asked the limousine something in Creole. The limousine replied in a light feminine voice. “Two more minutes,” he said to Mary. “You are going to the house of Colonel Sir in the mountains, which mountains do not matter.”

She felt relief. That did not sound like a death sentence; it sounded more like diplomatic card games. “Why are you unhappy, then?” she asked. “He’s your chosen leader.”

“I am loyal to Colonel Sir,” Soulavier said. “I am not unhappy to visit his house. I have sadness for those who oppose him, such as yourself.”

Mary shook her head solemnly. “I’ve done nothing to oppose him.”

Soulavier waved that aside contemptuously, snapping, “You are part of all his troubles. He is beset from all sides. A man such as he, noble as he, should not face the gratitude of baying wild dogs.”

Mary softened her voice. “I am no more a cause of his troubles than you are. I came here seeking a suspect in a crime.”

“A friend of the Colonel Sir’s.”

“Yes…”

“Your United States accuses him of harboring a criminal.”

“I don’t believe—”

“Believe nothing then,” Soulavier said. “We are here.” They passed between broad stone and concrete pillars, missing the ponderous wrought iron gate by inches as it swung wide. Torchlight beams burst out all around. Soulavier pulled out identity papers. The limousine door sprung open automatically and three guards thrust in their rifles. They regarded her with viciously wise slitted eyes, shrewd, intensely skeptical. Soulavier handed them the papers as they glanced at Mary with an occasional murmur of masculine incredulity and admiration.

Soulavier exited first and held out his hand, fingers waggling, demanding hers. She emerged without accepting his help and blinked at the torchlights and searchlight beams.

A house? Guard towers all around as in a prison or a concentration camp. She turned and saw a gothic gingerbread monstrosity flanking the wide brick and asphalt courtyard. One vast many pointed curlicue of wood and carved stone and wrought iron, painted a greenish blue with white framed windows and doors like clown eyes and mouths.

Mary observed that all the guards wore their black berets tilted to one side and were dressed in black and red. All wore on their broad lapels fingersized pins of a ruby eyed skeletal man in top hat and tails. Soulavier stepped forward after conversing with a cluster of guards. “Please give me your weapon,” he said quietly.

Without hesitating she reached into her pocket, produced the pistol and handed it to Soulavier, who regarded it with some curiosity before passing it on.

“And your hairbrush,” he said.

“It’s in the luggage.” Oddly this revelation and disarmament seemed to cheer her. It removed one more level of decision making. Things were getting sufficiently in a rough to break the expected chain of her emotions.

“We are not simpletons,” Soulavier said as guards removed her suitcase from the trunk and knocked it open with rifles. One tall muscular guard with a wise bulldog face removed the hairbrush, held it up to torchlight, fumbled the cap open and sniffed at the nano within.

“Tell them not to touch it,” Mary suggested. “It could be harmful to their skin if they touch it.”

Soulavier nodded and spoke to the guards in Creole. The bulldog guard capped the brush and slipped it into a plastic bag.

“Come with me,” Soulavier instructed. His own nervousness seemed to have passed. He even smiled at her. As they approached the steps of the front entrance to the house he said, “I hope you appreciate my courtesy.”

“Courtesy?”

“To leave you the feeling of being armed, resourceful, until the last minute.”

“Oh.” The ornate carved oak double doors opened at their approach. Beyond them armored steel vault doors slipped back into recesses. “Thank you, Henri,” she said.

“You are welcome. You will be checked again for weapons, rather thoroughly. I regret this.”

Mary felt socially if not spatially disoriented. Giddy. “Thank you for the warning,” she said.

“It is nothing. You will meet with Colonel Sir and his wife. You will have dinner with them. I do not know whether I will accompany you.”

“Will you be searched for weapons as well, Henri?”

“Yes.” He watched her face closely for signs of irony. He found none; she meant no irony. Mary felt acutely the inebriation of danger. “But not as thoroughly as they will search you,” he concluded.

Past the vault doors, two women in black and red took her firmly by the arms and led her into a cloakroom.

“Remove your clothes please,” a short, muscularly plump woman with a stern face demanded. Mary did so and they tapped her on the shoulders and hips, stooping to inspect her skin for suspicious blemishes. They felt the gray crease in her buttocks with murmurs of dissatisfaction.

Doctor Sumpler will certainly hear about this, Mary thought, now knowing whether to laugh or scream.

They turned her quickly, warm dry fingers.

“You are not noir,” said the short woman. She smiled mechanically. “I must inspect your privates.”

“Surely a machine, a detector—” Mary began, but the woman broke off her protest with a sharp shake of her head and a tug on Mary’s wrist.

“No machines. Your privates,” she said. “Bend please.”

Mary bent over. Blood pounded in her head. “Is this the standard treatment for dinner guests?”

None of the women answered. The short woman snapped on a rubber glove, allowed a finger to be covered with translucent gel from a tube and inspected Mary’s genitals and anus with quick professional probes.

“Put your clothes back on please,” she ordered. “Your bladder is tight. After you are dressed, I will take you to the restroom.”

Mary dressed quickly, shivering in her rediscovered anger. The disorientation had passed. She hoped that somehow Yardley would come to regret what she had just suffered.

In the hallway again the short woman led her to a restroom on one side, waited for her to relieve herself and escorted her into a rotunda. Soulavier rejoined her, face composed, hands still, and they stood beneath an enormous chandelier. Mary was no judge of decor but she suspected a French influence: early nineteenth century perhaps. Bluegray walls with white trim. Furniture more fanciful than useful, an atmosphere dominated by the rich and richly oppressive past. Not what she had been led to expect in Yardley’s home; she had visualized more of the hunting lodge or the dark tones of an English study.

“Madame Yardley, née Ermione LaLouche, will meet with us,” Soulavier said. The guards stood ill at ease behind them, the short woman almost at Mary’s elbow. “She is from Jacmel. A true lady of our island.”

There are no ladies or gentlemen on Hispaniola, Mary thought. She came remarkably close to saying it aloud; Soulavier glanced at her with warm slightly hurt eyes as if he had heard. He smiled uncertainly and stiffened.

A painfully thin black woman with high cheekbones and clear staring eyes, at least fifteen centimeters shorter than Mary, entered the rotunda. She wore a long green empire gown and softly, languidly allowed her gloved hand to rest on the upheld arm of a gray haired mulatto in black livery. The mulatto smiled and nodded at Soulavier, the female guards, Mary, all pleasantry and obsequiousness. Madame Yardley hardly seemed aware until she stood directly before them.

“Bonsoir et bienvenus, Monsieur et Mademoiselle,” the gray haired servant said, his voice resonant as if issuing from a profound cavern. “Madame Yardley is here. She will speak to you.”

The woman seemed to come alive, jerking and smiling, focusing on Mary. “Pleasant to meet you,” she said, words thickly accented. “Pardon my English. Hilaire speaks for me.”

The servant nodded with broad enthusiasm. “Please accompany us to the salon. We will take drinks and hors d’oeuvres there. So pleased is Madame to have you as her guests. Follow us, please.”

Hilaire turned Madame Yardley around with a waltzing step and she glanced over her shoulder at Mary, nodding. Mary wondered whether the woman was starving herself to death or if Yardley preferred emaciated women. The Hispaniolan exiles had told Mary that Colonel Sir kept mistresses. Perhaps Madame Yardley was purely ceremonial.

The salon was overwhelmingly elegant, a smothering, mal de tête mix of chinoiserie and African motifs. Another even larger chandelier glittered over an enormous hand-woven Chinese rug, sufficiently worn to be centuries old. A drum as tall as a man—an assotor—stood on a pedestal in one corner. Ebony sculptures of bearded men lined the walls, tall shortlegged figures with narrow heads and swayed backs, gods, devils. A huge brass bowl filled with water and floating flowers stood in the corner diagonal to the assotor.

This elegance countered all she had been told: that Yardley preferred simple quarters and was not ostentatious. The Samedi pins on his guards: did he espouse vodoun as well?

Madame Yardley sat at one end of a soie du chine upholstered couch. Hilaire deftly came around behind her and released her hand, which she then used to lightly pat the space next to her, smiling at Mary.

“Donnez-vous la peine de vous asseoir. Please,” she said, her voice childlike and spooky.

“Madame invites you to sit,” Hilaire said. “Monsieur Soulavier, please take that seat there.” He pointed with a multiply ringed finger at a chair fully five meters across the pastel-azure sea of carpet. Soulavier obeyed. Mary took her assigned position. “Madame Yardley wishes to talk with you both about circumstances on our island.”

What followed was a puppet show conversation of mixed French and broken English from Madame Yardley accompanied by smoothly extrapolated, even psychic English translations from Hilaire. Madame Yardley expressed concern about the difficulties around the island; what did Monsieur Soulavier have to report?

Soulavier told her little more than what he had told Mary, that Dominicans and other groups were expressing dissatisfaction, that troops had been called out to patrol. This seemed to satisfy.

Madame Yardley turned to Mary now. Hilaire, standing behind her with his hands on the back of the couch, followed suit. Was she enjoying the stay? Was she being treated well by all Hispaniolans?

Mary shook her head. “No, Madame,” she replied. “I am being held against my will.”

A tiny candle of concern in Madame’s eyes but no end to the smile, the childlike inquiry.

That will come to an end, we are sure; these difficulties are very upsetting for us all. Would that all could live in harmony. Is Mademoiselle Choy a noiriste perhaps, choosing such a lovely design for herself?

“I meant no disrespect for black people. I simply found this design attractive.”

Hilaire leaned forward, taking a more direct role. “Do you know what noirism is? Madame Yardley wonders whether you in fact support by your choice of design the political movement whereby blacks around the world have found their pride.”

Mary considered that for a moment. “No. I sympathize but my design was purely aesthetic.”

Then perhaps Mademoiselle Choy is a spiritual noiriste, an instinctive supporter, like my husband, Colonel Sir?

Mary conceded that much might be true.

Madame Yardley looked to Soulavier, asked him if perhaps Colonel Sir should adapt a new form, take on color as well as soul. She seemed to be jesting. Soulavier laughed and leaned forward to think about this, head tilted to one side, mocking serious consideration. He shook his head violently, leaned back and laughed again.

Madame Yardley concluded by asking pardon for her appearance. She was fasting, she explained, and would be breaking her fast only this evening. She would be drinking only fruit juices and eating only bread and a little plantain and potato, perhaps some chicken broth. Hilaire held out his hand, Madame Yardley topped it with her own, rose delicately, nodded to Mary and Soulavier.

“Dinner will be served,” Hilaire said. “Follow, please.”

The dining room was over fifteen meters long, its oak parquet floor supporting an immense rectangular table. Chairs lined the walls on all sides, as if the table might be cleared away to allow dancing. The sensual numbing deepened as she sat on the left of Madame Yardley before an elegant antique place setting on a damask tablecloth. Fresh orchids and fruit—Mary recognized mangoes, papaya, guava, star fruit—filled a gold ceramic bowl in the center of the table, with ancillary smaller bowls placed a meter on each side.

Hilaire sat beside and behind his mistress; he would not eat here. Mary wondered when the servant ate or performed any other human functions, if he attended Madame Yardley all the time.

Madame Yardley slowly and painfully made herself comfortable, her face reflecting numerous small complaints before she was composed and prepared to continue. She bowed slightly to Mary as if making her acquaintance for the first time. Her eyes were so large, staring. Starving. Otherworldly. Indeed, Madame Yardley looked around the table with the same fixed smile, regarding each empty chair as if it were occupied by an intimate acquaintance deserving some special acknowledgment.

Soulavier sat across from them. Madame Yardley’s gaze fell on him for less time than on one of the empty seats. She turned back to Mary and in French and Creole, speaking through Hilaire, asked her whether she thought Hispaniola was a good place to live compared to Los Angeles or California.

Soulavier glanced at Mary, nose angled just slightly up, eyes narrowed in warning. Mary tried to ignore him but her caution prevailed. If Madame Yardley was as delicate as she seemed, perhaps on the edge of very poor health, burning her own protein to stay alive, then Mary could risk unpleasantness by not humoring her. She felt in her pocket automatically for the pistol, missed it, saw Soulavier noting her gesture and turned quickly to Madame Yardley.

“Hispaniola is a lovely island, close to nature. Los Angeles is a very large city and nature has little place there.”

Madame Yardley absorbed this thoughtfully for a moment. She has never been to Los Angeles, nor to California; as a young girl, she visited Miami, and did not find it much to her liking. So confusing. She prefers, if she is to visit the continent, perhaps Acapulco or Mazatlan, where she spent three years being educated.

“I’ve never been to Miami, or to the others,” Mary said.

That was a pity; she should get out of the country more often to see what the rest of the world had to offer.

Mary agreed that was wise. She wanted nothing more than to be back in LA again and never step outside the city limits. This remained unspoken, however.

“I have been to Los Angeles,” Soulavier said. He had not revealed this to Mary; perhaps now she knew why Soulavier had been chosen to attend her. “My father helped set up the diplomatic mission in California in 2036.”

Madame asked him in her direct French what he thought of the city.

“Very large,” he said first in French then in English. “Very crowded. Not then as much separated I think as it is now, into two distinct classes.”

Is this true, two classes?

Mary inclined.

Soulavier said, “Those who accept the practice of mental therapy and those who do not. Generally speaking, there is discrimination against the latter.”

All must be therapied?

“No,” Soulavier said. “But to receive fulfilling employment you must have an acceptable mental and physical health profile. Refusal to be treated for mental or physical disorders…makes it difficult to be accepted by employment agencies. In most of the USA employment agencies screen applicants for the higher paying job opportunities.”

Madame Yardley laughed a glassy trilling musical laugh, both pretty and disturbing. She expressed an opinion that if everyone on Hispaniola had to prove their mental health the island would blow away like a dead tree in a hurricane. All of Hispaniola’s vitality, she claimed, comes from the refusal to give in to practicalities, to admit reality too deeply into one’s head. Eyes half closed, hand clutching the damask and table edge, she regarded Mary as if she might deny this and provoke Madame Yardley to strike her right off her chair. The fixed smile had vanished.

Mary inclined again. The smile returned like a flickering candle flame and Madame Yardley glanced up yearningly at Hilaire. The servant immediately pulled an electronic noise-maker from his pocket and pushed three sharp chirrups. Within ten seconds, more servants—mulattoes and one oriental all quite small in stature like children but fully mature—came in bearing soup bowls and a large tureen.

Nothing was said as they ate the soup, a mildly spiced chicken broth. Mary wondered whether they would all partake of Madame Yardley’s postfast diet.

She did not ask if Colonel Sir was going to join them later, perhaps when more substantial food was brought in. Soulavier ignored her look and slurped soup from his spoon placidly, content that for the moment there was less danger of awkwardness.

When the soup course was finished Madame Yardley allowed Hilaire to dab at her mouth delicately. It tastes wonderful, she said, like a breath of life itself. Is Mary curious why she is fasting?

“Yes,” Mary said.

Madame Yardley explained that her poor husband is receiving opposition from all sides, even from his wife. She is fasting to convince him to comply with international laws, and not play the rogue; to permanently stop the shipment of Hispaniolan troops to foreign countries to fight foreign wars. He has finally agreed, and so: she breaks her fast. It is important, she concluded, for Hispaniola to assume an even higher moral posture than the countries around her. The island has the potential to be a great paradise, heaven on Earth. But such a dream will not be fulfilled so long as its peoples sin against the other peoples of the Earth or encourage their sins against each other. Is that an idealistic, perhaps a hopeless dream?

“I hope not,” Mary said.

Servants brought in wine. Mary accepted a small amount; Soulavier with some eagerness took a full glass of the dark red liquid. Madame Yardley had none. A dull foggy amber juice was poured for her.

She began to speak again but this time she held up her hand to Hilaire’s mouth. “I think I remember such words now,” she said directly. “I make my husband, you treat this woman well. She has not treated well. No fault her she is among us. Give her what she desires. He says we have not what you desire.”

“So I’ve been told,” Mary said.

“You believe this?” Madame Yardley asked.

Mary shook her head dubiously. “It seems I’ve been sent here for no good reason.”

Madame Yardley’s candle of concern burned brighter in her eyes. Her expression became motherly and joyful. She leaned forward, strengthened by the soup, and said, “What you want is here. We have the man Goldsmith. I think you can see him, perhaps so soon as tomorrow.”

Mary put down her glass of wine carefully, fingers trembling with mixed anger and shock. Soulavier seemed just as surprised.

52

LitVid 21/1 A Net (AXIS Direct Report with Visuals, David Shine): “We are receiving these remarkable visuals from AXIS at nineteen hundred hours PST. The resolution is poor because these are real-time images, relayed with AXIS’s usual data flow across four light years. Doubtless AXIS will provide higher resolution squeeze burst images later…

“This is the ocean AXIS has dubbed Meso, for middle. It is a large body of fresh water—there are no salt oceans on B-2—very nearly girdling the planet. As you recall, B-2 has a single great polar ocean, the only blue sea, and this other beltlike sea and a few scattered lakes. All the tower formations are within a few hundred kilometers of these seas which are filled with an amorphous organic soup. So far no large life forms have been discovered on B-2 and therein lies the mystery—earthbound scientists have been given no clues to explain how the towers might have been formed. But as you can see…These pictures, assembled from dozens of mobile explorers scattered around the Meso ocean, show a virtual tide of organic material rising from the water, moving across the littoral that is coastal region, and then breaking up into these remarkable, one can only call them rollers or sideways tentacles, moving at a rapid pace much as a sidewinder does on Earth across the sand and gravel.

“There is great excitement at AXIS Control on Lunar farside, in Australia and in California, where the AXIS simulation is overseen by Roger Atkins. We have no direct interviews available at this moment; everybody is very busy. But we do have transcriptions of AXIS’s commentary and these are available on your Lit text band…”

AXIS (Band 4)> This migration of organic material began three hours ago. I have delayed transmission to allow all my mobile explorers and nickel children to move into ideal positions. Three explorers have in fact come too close and been bowled over by organic material; one may be completely out of action. The other two report they will recover. Roger, this is a remarkable phenomenon but not completely unexpected. I have been analyzing the possible internal structures of the rings of towers and have concluded that periodic deposition is a probable explanation. I could only assume that any living thing or things responsible for such structures would come out of the oceans. Now we see the beginning of a possible phase of gathering and deposition. There is no way of knowing whether or not new formations will be constructed.

The towers vary in individual width. Some towers have almost joined together, forming solid circles; many of these seem to have fallen into decay, as if abandoned. It seems there may be a connection between the decayed circles and the completion of a ring, that is, when all towers have fused together to form a squat cylinder.

The motile forms of the organic material rising from Meso are fascinating. My explorers and children have seen worms moving like terrestrial annelids, other forms moving like snakes, and large flat mats or masses of material crawling on what may be newly grown cilia or thousands of tiny feet. The entire region surrounding the Meso ocean to a distance of three kilometers is covered with millions of lumps, extrusions and motile forms. My orbiter reports that the paths of these migrating bodies point in ninety percent of cases toward a ring of circular towers.

If this is in fact a suitable explanation for the towers, I have certainly erred in suggesting they might have been created by intelligent beings. What my different extensions witness here is primordial, betraying no more culture or intelligence than the crawling of a terrestrial slime mold.

David Shine: “This is a truly remarkable development, and so sudden that it has taken all our experts by surprise. The general impression is that all of AXIS’s designers and programmers are busy reassessing AXIS’s mission in light of the possibility that the towers are completely natural not artificial…”

!Roger Atkins> Jill. I have a squeeze burst band two self diagnostic of AXIS separated from the realtime flow. Why did AXIS send this to us? It’s not scheduled.

!JILL> I am analyzing. Analysis complete. AXIS is reevaluating the character of its mission in light of new information.

!Roger Atkins> Do I have any reason to be concerned?

!JILL> AXIS Simulation is now conducting such a reevaluation. There are several responses that seem to be anomalous in primary AXIS.

I am investigating these anomalies.———

Roger, these anomalies are within expected variation of model versus primary. They may be the result of the only circumstance we cannot model in AXIS Simulation as it is currently designed; AXIS Simulation is aware that it is not in AXIS primary’s exact circumstance.

!Roger Atkins> What does that mean, Jill?

!JILL> It is here, and not out there.

!Roger Atkins> Well, for Christ’s sake, that’s obvious.

!JILL> Very obvious. But perhaps significant. AXIS primary is experiencing some disturbance while it reevaluates its mission. AXIS Simulation does not replicate these disturbances.

!Roger Atkins> Jill, I think it’s time I sent a few tracers and confirmation routines through AXIS Simulation. I did not know that AXIS Simulation realized there was a difference.

!JILL> I apologize for not reporting this eventuality earlier.

!Roger Atkins> No apologies necessary. I’ve been slipping up, obviously.

53

Martin examined Goldsmith critically.

Goldsmith’s couch rhythmically massaged his back, legs and arms; his head and neck were cushioned on a gently undulating pillow.

Carol hummed as she marked off their procedures on her slate. They were alone in the theater with the sleeping man, surrounded by the busy quiet of electronic equipment and the subdued murmur of air from the theater blowers. The rest of the team was resting or eating dinner.

“How are the connections?” Carol asked, walking around the cot to join him. Martin bent to look at a spot on Goldsmith’s neck two inches below the corner of the jawbone. A few bristles of beard then a smooth shaved circle; within the circle a fine pattern of silvery lines. The nano within Goldsmith had created direct circuitry running from the brain to the skin’s surface at the neck; a connector would link this circuit to similar circuits from their own brains, through the mediating computer, which would clean up and interpret the flow of information from Goldsmith, Neuman and Burke. No buffer. That still concerned Martin.

“They look very good,” Martin said. “I think we’ve done about as much fussing as we should. Time for our own dose.”

Carol called in the team. David and Karl would help them prepare; then Margery and Erwin would prepare David and Karl for their role as backups. When the full investigation was on there would be five people lying on couches in the theater, apparently asleep.

Carol and Martin retired to their couches. Nano was fed into their arms and necks, as with Goldsmith. Margery turned on the inducers that would lull them into sleep; they would stay asleep for several hours while the nanomachines found their loci, grew the appropriate circuitry and emerged on their own necks; then they would be brought to a state of neutral awareness, suspended above bodily sensations but wide awake and capable of opening and moving their eyes. For the first level of investigation, they would also be capable of talking out loud.

Martin thought about his boyhood bedroom. The robots he had made, big and small; his grandfather buying him books, bound paper items becoming rare even then. His first infatuation with a young girl who called herself Trix.

There was no sensation as the nano took up its stations within his body.

Dull comfortable lassitude. Opened his eyes just once to look into the gallery. Saw Albigoni there chin on folded arms resting on the window railing. What would he do.

What are we going to do.

Margery woke Martin up at twenty-two hundred. His senses seemed particularly sharp but he did not try to move. He could smell the sharp cheesy odor of nano; he had ignored it before. He felt a pang of hunger though he had eaten well. They would not be eating for many more hours. “Everything’s fine, Dr. Burke,” Margery said. “We’re going to hook up your cable now.”

“Good.”

Karl and David slung the thin lightweight optical cables across the room and around the barrier that blocked their view of Goldsmith. Karl locked the cables into guides mounted on the couches. “Be still,” Karl said lightly, bending close to Martin’s neck. Martin felt the connector cold and soft against his skin. David and Margery examined the readout on the cable monitor, decided the connection was optimum and moved to Carol’s side.

Just minutes, Up Country again. Anabasis. A one way at first and then a loop, Burke and Neuman within Goldsmith like hikers preparing to trek a new land. Not even Goldsmith had seen this part of himself. Nobody directly experienced this part of himself.

“You should be getting a visual neural pattern from Goldsmith in a few seconds,” Margery said from the other side of the barrier.

“Carol,” Martin said.

“Yes? Hi there.”

“I’m glad you’re with me.”

“I know. I’m glad to be here.”

“Enough chatter please,” David said pleasantly. “What do you see, Carol, Martin?”

Martin closed his eyes. On the edge of his vision fluttered a somber brightness limned by electric green. The electric green blossomed into an infinite regression of twirling fractals, inner-mind geometries familiar to all brain researchers: visual interference patterns from occipital lobe signal smear.

Martin had first seen such patterns as a child, pressing his eyelids with knuckles at night, causing pressure on the optic nerve.

These were his own patterns, not Goldsmith’s.

“Nothing but visual smear,” Carol said.

“Ditto,” Martin concurred.

“We’re still searching and tuning,” Margery said. “I’ve got a level one signal here. I’m feeding it through now.”

Martin saw a vivid mandala of wildly twisting snakes, tails at the periphery noses in the center, eyes yellow bodies pearl-gray, each scale feverishly sharp. “Snakes.”

“Snakes,” Carol said simultaneously.

“Looks like a limbic ID signal,” Martin said. “It must be Goldsmith’s. We’re close.”

“Tuning,” Margery said. “Separating out a new frequency. How’s this?”

Clouds. An endless cycle of clouds and rain again in a mandala, storms racing in a circle around a twisting wheel of lightning. The lightning threatened to turn into snakes. Martin exulted; they were on track, observing the layers of limbic signs, symbols exchanged between the brain’s autonomic systems and higher personal systems. “Clouds and lightning, lightning trying to go back to the snakes layer again.”

“Ditto,” Carol said.

“Another frequency,” Margery said. “I’ve got a strong one now. How’s this?”

A cubic room with dirty brick walls, dank, water dripping, water on the floor, water crawling up the walls like something alive. In the middle of the water a tiny yellow skinned or perhaps golden skinned child bald but for a topknot sat on a sunny desert island playing cards.

“Jesus,” Carol said. “This certainly looks personal to me.

The child looked up and smiled. Its face was suddenly painted over with a chimpanzee in full grimace, gray bearded, snout protruding, brown animal eyes infinitely calm. This was a deep symbol but definitely personal and definitely Goldsmith.

“We seem to be in a closed room. Let’s see if it opens.”

From their perspective near the dripping brick ceiling, the water on the floor changed color. It became a gray, storm covered ocean, a red wine colored lake, a mud puddle sprinkled with rain. Still the desert island remained, and the child, repeating its endless cycle of glance upward, chimpanzee face, back to playing cards. This was a special case of the Country; an assigned symbol to some intermediate personal layer taking on characteristics abstracted not from genetic heritage but from Goldsmith’s own early infant experiences.

What the room and child and chimpanzee face were symbolic of did not matter here; possibly such deep layers could never truly be mapped with a one to one meaning correspondence.

Martin had encountered such deep layer personal myth idioms many times before, always enigmatic, often profoundly beautiful. They were probably determined by archetypal problem solving early in childhood; they might be cast off closed loop artifacts of individuation, a process usually completed by the age of three or four. Whatever, they were fascinating but not precisely what he and Carol were looking for.

“Looks like a myth idiom,” Martin said. “A closed loop. Try another.”

“No doors out,” Carol said.

“Another stronger frequency,” Margery said. “I’m switching to another locus, another channel in a deeper cluster.”

An opening out. Sensation of immensity. Here was something undoubtedly acquired after personality formation, perhaps even from adolescent experience. An impression of three infinite highways running side by side through sunwashed desert. Barren sand drifts. Martin concentrated on exploring this image, taking what was being sent to him and controlling what he could focus on a point at a time. This caused a dizzying adjustment of the image and he found himself standing on the middle highway. He had no sensation of weight or even of presence; the sun was brilliant with that somber brightness characteristic of the Country, but it did not warm him.

Martin looked down at himself. He wore faded denim jeans, paint stained white workshirt, childhood running shoes. He had worn this outfit before in Country.

“We’re setting up crosslink subverbal now,” Margery said. Her voice sounded distant and hollow. “Let us know when you want out.”

From now on Martin and Carol would not talk out loud until the test was completed.

|Carol?

An impression of something huge above him, like a descending asteroid. Another personality: Carol.

|Here with you.

She appeared beside him on the road, fuzzy, a mere ghost at this stage. Only with a complete loop established would they see each other clearly, and even then what they saw would not necessarily match each other’s self image.

|This looks convincing enough, Martin said. I think we can use this as a channel for entry.

|Welcome home, Carol said.

Martin opened his eyes. The images of highway and theater clashed for a moment and then the Country faded like a wisp of dream. Albigoni stood in the gallery above the theater, hands in pockets. Lascal sat behind his employer; his feet were visible on the railing.

“All right,” Martin said. “Tune to this locus and channel. Might as well lull us into a good sound sleep while you’re fixing the points and finishing the tune.”

Margery leaned over him. She squinted and looked at the connector display. “Everything’s fine,” she said. Erwin stood beside Carol’s couch.

“How long until we go in?” Carol asked.

“Three hours to get the frequencies fixed and logged,” Margery said. “It’s eleven thirty five now.”

“It’s going to be a long night,” Martin said. “Wake us up at nine hundred. You’ll have plenty of time to get David and Karl prepped as backups. All of you get a good night’s sleep. We want people fresh and alert.”

He turned his eyes to the gallery again. Albigoni had moved his hands to his hips. “Cive Mr. Albigoni a briefing. Tell him we’ll probably be finished by noon tomorrow.”

“Will do,” Margery said.

“See you in my dreams,” Carol said lightly.

Margery adjusted the inducer. Martin closed his eyes.

1100-11100-11111111111

54

Thinking back, never in his entire life could Richard Fettle remember being so miserable. Not after the death of his wife and daughter not during the long years of recovery and putting his life back together. The war within caused a pain greater than he had felt at any of those times. This depth of anguish perplexed him.

If he simply killed the woman lying next to him and entered into the next phase of his life, all might be resolved. It was an actual effort to keep his arms by his side. Surely she would feel his inward struggle if only through the faint vibration of the bed as he shifted back and forth, muscles in conflict against each other. But she slept soundly.

Nadine had always exhibited a remarkable ability to ignore reality or see only what she wished to see. She had played her therapy games with him. She deserved to reap the consequences. Surely the powers that be would allow him that. Surely the example of Emanuel Goldsmith who had attracted so much attention pointed his way clearly.

Richard did not care to solve the conundrum of Goldsmith now. He did not want to think or puzzle at all.

He rolled over again in bed to observe Nadine’s sleeping form. She had tried to get him to make love to her an hour earlier, telling him it would ease his tensions. She seemed to find his distress attractive; it aroused some perverse mothering instinct.

He had painfully worked his way out of that trap. Now he looked upon her warm and quiet and saw only flesh that needed to be stilled.

+ Sick. Really need therapy now not hers professional. Over the edge. Beyond the beyond. Write a poem about her flesh passing from sleeping life to stillness disorder beneath my fingers. Selectors read the poem come to put me through hell worse than what I experience now? Doesn’t seem possible. Therapists cluck cluck over me probe my mind mandatory revision of my soul shift this over here what’s that? Don’t touch that; poison, a mental virus infect us all, he must have caught it from Goldsmith. One last chance; burn his mind his body to ashes sift the ashes reassemble them into a new man New Man send him forth into the world shining of face prepared to behave boy scout honorable fit for society perhaps even seeking employment going to an agency and all he has to do is touch her neck smooth warm feel the birdbreath pulse of blood there

She moved. He withdrew his hand, put it back. Would she awake before dying. Could he ease her gently into disorder.

+ Still kindness in me. Something gentle still there. Purge it or they will. Do this thing now and the world will beat a path to my door my brain let us help you. Curious about how you came to be this way. Do you blame it on your upbringing? No, on a friend who disappointed me. Merely disappointed? Cluck. Disappointment not sufficient to cause all this. No he betrayed what he stood for. Stood for in me. Cluck. Betrayal is serious thing. She wants to betray you by therapying you. In the shade who needs therapy I do you do we all do but that’s not important. What is important is stopping the misery. Could vomit out all my thoughts personality memory just throw them through my eyes onto the bed. They would stand up on their own feet scamper crawl over the sheets they would kill her then. Eat her like monstrous insects. Cluck. Disturbed images. Most upsetting for normal people to peer into your head see such thoughts. You are so unclean therapy would be futile. Bring on the Selectors. Punishment is the only answer. Purging fire with a fusion flame of greater misery.

He continued to stroke Nadine’s neck softly.

+ Another kind of seduction. Make death with me. It will relax you.

That tickled him and he had to subdue a chuckle.

+ Sounding most maniacal now. Really over the border. Goldsmith’s example. Did he laugh gleefully as he cut their throats unsuspecting sacrificial lambs one by bloody disordered one.

But the fingers would not tighten. He could still feel that subservient person within gentle and undemanding, resisting these impulses with an iron determination that seemed uncharacteristic.

Richard rolled on his back, stared up at the dark ceiling, traced the ancient earthquake crack in the ancient plaster.

He had once lain in this bed and watched a ghostly drift of shadows around the light fixture, hair rising on his neck and arms, convinced he was seeing something supernatural. The awe he had felt at that moment had been religious, had given a chill meaning to the few moments he remained deceived. Gradually, he had gathered courage of two kinds: courage to investigate this perhaps spookish phenomenon and courage to discover the truth and possibly be disappointed. He had stood up on his bed, approached the light fixture by rising on crane knees, reached out with a hand to touch a shadow.

Cobwebs. Great loose strands casting shadows outward from the light fixture. No ghosts, no awe. Heat from the antique electric furnace rising and blowing along the ceiling.

+ This misery and funk heat rising from within, blowing cobweb self, casting bogeyman shadows nothing more.

All he had to do was reach out and undeceive himself.

+ Go back to being the iron willed reluctant to kill gentle Richard Fettle, Los Angeles’s shade common man. Betrayed enraged abused.

He was wide awake but his body had exhausted itself in the counterpoise of tensions. He could feel his breathing slow, hitch in and out of regularity. His hands tingled slightly then his legs. If he could just drift.

+ Let it all go. Die.

He half opened his eyes. A tunnel floated above him, its black lip carved with words he could not read.

His body grew numb, his breathing passed beyond his control. Exhaustion had finally claimed him yet he was thinking and seeing. This was not what he wanted; sleep was supposed to bring oblivion. For a moment he tried to struggle upward, fearful of spending the entire night in a horrible trance staring down the throat of a nightmare. With each willful surge upward his breathing hitched, he seemed to emerge from the trance and then a contrary fear struck him; he was more comfortable more peaceful now than he had been. If he struggled further the complete misery would return; better this than what had come before.

Richard stopped his inner struggle. He observed the tunnel calmly, waiting to see if anything would change. He could see the room only in hazy outlines; his eyes were not half open after all but completely closed, he was sure of that; yet the room remained visible like an afterimage from some momentary flash, its planes and forms glowing somber green. He saw both the tunnel and the electric light fixture it obscured; one could pass through the other. He seemed to be in control of a microscope moving through levels of focus, revealing more and more details of a world suspended in fixative.

The effect was so fascinating that for a moment he completely forgot his misery. He had heard friends describe the experience of “eyeball movies”—had heard it called lucid dreaming many decades ago—but had never experienced it until now. This was like the gateway to an interior universe.

But thinking of that returned him to his waking problems and the scene suspended above him muddied. His breathing hitched again.

—Lord no. Like riding a horse. Learn how to stay in the saddle. Steady and calm.

The regularity returned. He controlled his awareness until he could see the tunnel.—Might as well.

He moved himself into the tunnel. The words were still not comprehensible; the letters grew more complicated then fled as he approached. Abruptly the tunnel was gone and a voice said to him as clearly as if it spoke in his waking ear, Here is what you need Richard Fettle.

He stood in the old apartment in Long Beach. Outside the daylight was bright but somehow somber; the coloring of dream. Yet this could just as easily be memory; everything was correct. He walked around the apartment, arms folded, feeling his dream body, his dream breathing. This was real yet the apartment no longer existed; the century old building had been razed a decade or more ago.

With sudden alarm he wondered whether Gina would walk through the door, dropped off for a visit by Dione. Could he stand to see a perfectly convincing dream image of the dead?

Richard looked at the palms of his hands.

—Dream emotions. Everything’s safe. You’re in control. Try something.

—Try flying.

He willed himself to lift from the floor. His feet remained on the floor.

—Can’t do everything.

He tried to will a beautiful woman not Nadine to come through the door dressed in provocative clothes.

—How real can this get.

No woman entered through the door.

The voice again: This is what you need Richard Fettle.

Chastised, he realized he was not here to play or experiment. A gate had indeed been opened but for a specific reason.

—What do I need?

As automatically as the distant sleep rhythm of his breath he walked toward a chair, sat and felt a cloud of sadness drift over him. He struggled to get up but could not. He could not dispel the cloud.

—Not this again. No.

Protests ignored.

A younger Emanuel Goldsmith stood in the doorway carrying a plastic bag wrapped around a bottle, a manuscript in a box under his other arm. He closed the door behind him.

Richard watched this apparition hair black no salt and pepper out of fashion clothes, smoother face. Gentle smile.

“Thought you could use company. If you don’t want any…” Goldsmith gestured to the door. “I’ll go.”

Automatically: “Thank you. Stay. I don’t have much for lunch…”

“Liquid lunch or I’ll call out. Got a royalty check yesterday. Video play production residuals. Moses.” Goldsmith sat on a threadbare couch, avoiding a red wine stain where Dione had knocked over a glass some time ago. He set the manuscript down over the stain.

Gina and Dione would not be coming through the door.

In this time frame, in this dream memory, Gina and Dione were already dead. Richard was observing a playback; he could do nothing but watch.

This is what you need Richard Fettle.

“What kind of liquid?” Richard asked.

“Unblended single malt scotch. To celebrate paying my debts.” He raised his eyebrows, pulled out the bottle, cradled its neck between two fingers and thumb and let Richard inspect the warm amber contents. From the bag he also produced two shot glasses. “Because you’re not a drinking man you’re not likely to have a couple of these lying around.”

“I’ve never tasted unblended scotch,” Richard said.

“Unblended single malt.”

—Everything stored away. How much of this really happened? Am I making it up as I dream? I remember Goldsmith visiting. Two weeks after, maybe a week and a half.

Goldsmith poured two drinks and handed one to Richard. “For denizens of the shade, which gets longer as twilight approaches.”

“To Götterdämmerung.” Richard tasted the scotch; it was smoky and smooth and unexpectedly seductive. “I don’t think I want to get drunk. It would be easy to drown myself in this.”

“I only bought one bottle and it wasn’t to drown your sorrows,” Goldsmith said. “You’ll never be a drinking man, anyway. You may not believe this, Dick”—only Goldsmith called him Dick—“but you’ve got your head screwed on pretty straight. One of my few acquaintances who does.”

“Not screwed on. It just feels screwed now.”

“You’ve taken an awful blow,” Goldsmith said softly. “If I were you I’d be pissing tears.”

Richard shrugged.

“You haven’t left the apartment in a week. You don’t have any food. Harriet’s buying food for you now.”

—Harriet, Harriet…Goldsmith once had a girlfriend by that name.

“I don’t need help,” Richard said.

“The hell you say.”

“I really don’t.”

“We need to get you out of here, into whatever sun the bastards are leaving us. Go to the state beach. Breathe some fresh air.”

“Please.” Richard waved his hand. “I’ll be all right.”

—Both of us so young. I see him as he was then bright and happy successful wanted everybody to be happy.

“Life does go on,” Goldsmith suggested. “It really does, Dick. Harriet and I, we like you. We want to see you recover from this. Dione wasn’t even your wife, Dick.”

Richard leaped to his feet, extremely agitated. “Jesus Christ. The divorce isn’t wasn’t final and Gina will always be my daughter. Do you want to take everything away? Even my…” Waving hands violently. “All that I have left. My goddamned pain…”

“No. Not taking it away. How long since we met, Dick?”

Richard didn’t answer. He stood trembling, fists clenched.

“Two and a half months,” Goldsmith answered for him. “I consider you already maybe the best friend I’ve ever had. I just hate to see life grind anybody. Especially you.”

“It’s something I have to go through.”

“I’ve never married. I’d hate to lose something so important. I think it would kill me. Maybe you’re stronger than I am.”

“Bullshit,” Richard said.

“I mean it. I’m not strong inside. I look at you, you’re like a rock. Inside I’m just clay. I’ve always known that. I accept it.” Goldsmith stood, lifted his arms and turned once for inspection. “I look solid, don’t I.”

“Stop it, please,” Richard said, looking down. “I’m not going to starve myself but right now I don’t need your help. I just don’t care.”

Goldsmith sat. “Harriet says someone should be sleeping here to keep you company.”

“I haven’t had anybody sleeping here in five months. I’ve been alone except for.” He didn’t finish. Goldsmith waited.

“All right,” Goldsmith said.

“When Gina.”

“Yeah.”

Richard sat and picked up the glass. “Stayed here.” He sipped again. “I’ll be all right.”

“Yeah,” Goldsmith said. “Don’t feel like we don’t care. I care. Harriet. All the folks.”

“I know,” Richard said. “Thank you.”

“I’ll stay if you want.”

“Good scotch. Maybe I can become a drinking man.”

“No, brother, you don’t want to get messed up with this shit.” Goldsmith lifted the bottle, stood and approached him. “Give me your glass. I’ll toss it. The hell with celebrations.”

Richard resisted his efforts to remove the glass. Goldsmith backed away, ran his hand through his hair, looked at the curtained window. “Let’s go outside and hunt some sunshine, Dick. Whatever we can find. Pure bright white light.”

Richard felt tears on his cheeks.

—Complete. No details missing.

“Go ahead, man,” Goldsmith encouraged gently. “Talk.”

Richard wiped his cheeks. “I really did love her. I couldn’t live with her but I loved her. And Gina…Christ, I don’t think I’ve ever loved anything on this Earth like I love that girl. There’s a big crater here, Emanuel.” He tapped his head. “A bomb blast. I’m not all here.”

“Bullshit.”

“No really. I can’t do anything. I can’t think, I can’t talk straight, I can’t write. I can’t cry.”

“You’re crying now, man. Don’t mistake grief for losing your soul. You’ve still got everything. You’re rock.”

The sob began as a muscle cramp deep inside. It worked its way up, acquiring an intensity that seemed to fragment his chest, until he sat on the couch shaking moaning holding his hands outstretched, grabbing at something.

—Feel it. Awful. This is it all over again. Worse even.

Goldsmith came to the couch, kneeled in front of Richard and hugged him fiercely. Goldsmith wept with him rocked with him, black eyes staring at the wall behind Richard. “You say it, man. Get it out. Tell the whole fucking world.”

The sob turned into a scream. Goldsmith held Richard to the couch as if he might leap away. Legs and arms thrashing, feeling all the unfairness and the pain and the necessity of feeling the unfairness and pain to honor his dead he must suffer. Would be cheap and lessen their value not to suffer as much as he possibly could. Goldsmith hung on. Finally they lay embraced on the couch, Richard holding Goldsmith, Goldsmith lying half on half off, still clutching him.

“Rock. Stone, man. Feel your strength inside. I know it’s there. I couldn’t take this. But you can, Dick. Hold on.”

“All right,” Richard moaned. “All right.”

“We love you, man. Hold on to it.”

—Goldsmith. The real one.

Goldsmith pulled back and his hair was gray, his face lined. “I’m clay. When you grieve for me, my friend, remember…You don’t owe me anything but what you give me when I’m alive. That’s it. Debt cleared.”

Richard nodded. Swallowed an agonizing knot in his throat. He had had enough. With a jerk he floated free of the memory and dream, felt a pressure as if he were confined in gray cotton, then a simple drift, bits and pieces of other dreams cascading and reassembling, dissolving. He opened his eyes and sat up on the side of the bed. Trembling, he hung his hands over his knees and leaned forward. Beside him Nadine moaned in her sleep and rolled over.

Richard stood slowly and went to the window.

+ How much buried. Dig it up, bury it again. He helped me. Was kind to me. A friend. Now he’s dead he must be. I can’t feel his presence.

Richard’s memory of that day was not clear. The dream hadn’t conveyed the whole story, not the conclusion. Goldsmith’s friend Harriet had come through the door without knocking while Goldsmith and Richard held each other on the couch. She had asked “What’s this?” and dropped a box of groceries on the floor. Then she had broken down in tears while Goldsmith tried to explain that Richard and he were not lovers. Harriet had never really understood; she and Goldsmith had ended their relationship a few weeks later.

Richard parted the window curtains, rubbed his eyes and shook his head, smiling. That had embarrassed the hell out of Goldsmith.

He glanced at the glowing numbers on the bedside clock. Three hundred. In a few hours the sun would rise over the hills and the combs would mete it out to those in their shadow, mirrors spreading the winter dawn, echoing from tower to tower second third and fourth hand, but still sun.

“Let’s go hunt some sunshine,” he whispered.

55

Mary Choy had pulled a chair across her spacious bedroom to the eastfacing window. Then she had sat and waited for sunrise. The sun had come up an hour after she had awakened, the dawn brief and beautiful from the mansion’s perspective high in the mountains of Hispaniola. With daylight guards and soldiers had gathered in the garden below the window, standing in groups of three or four until they were replaced by the morning watch.

The sky overhead was dusty blue. Through a gap in some mountains to the north she could see an edge of sea and horizon beyond. A few clouds gathered above southern peaks, feathering their gray wings in the winds.

She left the window to perform her morning ablutions. Looking in a full length mirror mounted behind the heavy wooden bathroom door, she observed that her pale cleft mark was darkening. Soon she would be uniform black. Healing by itself. Dr. Sumpler would be so pleased.

During her time on Hispaniola Mary had passed through the spectrum of dark emotions: fear, anger, dismay. Now she was simply calm. Before sleeping she had dytched; now she performed War Dance, assigning her bodily tensions to specific roles to be acted out. Let them watch. Let them execute her, frighten her, confuse her; nothing caused a tremor throughout the dance, and after the dance she was centered again. She felt she might keep control under all circumstances.

Madame Yardley had left the table the night before and the servants had brought in a sumptuous feast. Soulavier had eaten a great deal; Mary had eaten sufficiently to keep up her strength. They had not talked any more. They had parted company after dinner and Mary had been escorted to her room.

She had come up with some hypotheses which she hoped to pare down as the day progressed. Her first hypothesis: that this was not Yardley’s mansion but an historical relic used now for some strategic reason. Her second: that nobody knew much about Yardley after all, certainly not the people he ruled. Her third: that everything she had heard about Goldsmith before Madame Yardley’s appearance had been a lie. Her fourth: that Madame Yardley was not in her right mind and knew nothing.

A woman fasting to get the attention of her own husband.

The door to the room was not locked. Still, Mary had stayed within the room. She no longer regretted the loss of the pistol. Revenge was a weak satisfaction when taken against ants performing their social obligations.

War Dance had not eliminated her emotions. It had simply focused them. What she felt now was a strong and observant calm; an aggressive peace made up of equal parts patience and well channeled anger.

She adjusted her hair in the bathroom, inspected her midsuit and emerged to the sound of a gentle knocking on the door.

“Mademoiselle, are you ready for breakfast?” a woman asked.

“Yes,” she said. She looked at her watch. Nine hundred.

The door opened tentatively and a small round face poked through, found her, smiled. “Come, please.”

She followed the diminutive servant down the hall of bedroom doors, to the left instead of the right, and past the stairs. They were now in the west wing of the house where she had not been before.

The servant opened a door and she looked into a small room outfitted as an office. An elderly woman wearing a simple black shift stood before a case of memory boxes. Soulavier sat typing on an old display terminal. He glanced up at the servant and Mary, nodded with a frown, spun his chair around and stood.

“You will take breakfast with Colonel Sir,” he said. The elderly woman watched Mary with a fixed pleasant smile. Soulavier addressed her in Creole. She nodded silently and returned to her work.

“That was Madame Yardley’s mother,” he said as they walked alone the rest of the distance.

Mary remembered seeing a four story tower on this side of the building. They came to the end of the hall and Soulavier knocked gently on a broad double door made of solid mahogany. A muffled voice behind told them to enter.

Six men and two women stood around a long oak table within the high ceilinged, broad, turret shaped room. All around the room to a height of thirty feet rose a magnificent library, ornate wood cases equipped with leaded glass doors. Two balconies gave access to the upper shelves. Near the door a wrought iron staircase double helixed up to the balconies.

The two women and five of the men were black or mulatto; all wore black uniforms, some with the Samedi figure pinned to their chests. Mary focused on a tall, husky, white haired man seated at the head of the table. He did not look at her immediately, however; his attention was on a book. The table was covered with perhaps five or six hundred books of all sizes and kinds from leatherbound folios to crumbling paperbacks.

She had never seen so many books in all her life. She did not let them distract her for more than an instant from Yardley, however. He looked up from the book he held, closed it quietly and lay it down on the table. “Good to see you again, Henri. How’s little David? And Marie-Louise?”

“They are fine, Colonel Sir. I would like to introduce Lieutenant Mary Choy.”

“Thank you. Please sit. We’ll be served breakfast in here. A good meal, not one of Madame Yardley’s punishments. I trust she finally fed you last night.”

“Yes. She did,” Mary said. Yardley smiled broadly and shook his head sympathetically; such a nice man, he seemed to want her to think, quite English and familiar after all. Nothing exotic here.

Mary reserved judgment.

“All right. I think we’re through for this morning,” Yardley told the seven. They bowed stiffly, turned and filed past Soulavier and Mary out the door. The last man closed the double doors behind them with an enigmatic close lipped smile.

“I’ve given in to my wife, you know,” Yardley said. “We had a domestic dispute. She seems to think that my techniques for bringing this nation up from barbarism lack…finesse.”

“She is a remarkable lady,” Soulavier said, clearly ill at ease. Yardley returned his smile with a kind of sunny severity. Soulavier straightened perceptibly.

“Henri, I think I’ll be fine alone with Mademoiselle Choy. Please join the others in the main dining room downstairs. I’m serving all my staff a healthy breakfast this morning.”

“Of course, Colonel Sir.” Now it was Soulavier’s turn to exit through the double doors, closing them behind.

“The servants will clear a space on this table,” Yardley said, sweeping the air with one hand. “I find this the most congenial room in the whole building. I would happily spend my life in retirement here, reading Monsieur Boucher’s books.”

Mary said nothing.

“Monsieur Boucher,” he repeated, taking her blank look for puzzlement. “Sanlouie Boucher. Prime minister to the previous President of Haiti before my takeover. He built this marvelous mansion and had it fortified a year before my arrival. Unfortunately he was sequestered in Jacmel and never made it to his fortress.”

Mary nodded.

“Now. As to your case, if you don’t mind talking about it before breakfast is served…” He frowned almost comically and threw his hands up in the air. “Please, do not be so solemn. On my word of honor these people will do nothing to harm you. I see you’ve been through a few indignities…I apologize. I’ve been distracted and I haven’t had time for all the details. One man’s details can be another man’s catastrophe. I apologize again.”

“I’m being held against my will,” Mary said, conceding nothing to Yardley in exchange for his confession.

“Yes. A tug of war between your State Department and Justice Department and my government. It will be settled soon. In the meantime you can complete your investigation. You’ll have the closest thing to carte blanche I can provide. And no more indignities.”

“Can I speak with my superiors?”

“Your superiors and your government know that you’re not being mistreated.”

“I’d like to speak with them as soon as possible.”

“Agreed. As soon as possible,” Yardley said. “You’ve greatly impressed my people. Jean-Claude and Roselle are some of my finest and their report on you is most flattering. Henri is too nervous right now to be very objective. His family is in Santiago. Santiago is under siege by opposition forces. We’re safe here and in most of Haiti…But the Dominicans have always had a chip on their shoulder.”

“I’ve been told Emanuel Goldsmith is here,” Mary said. She had not moved from where Soulavier left her. “I’d like to see him as soon as possible.”

“That’s a bit more complicated. I haven’t seen him myself. This is a story I’d rather tell after breakfast. Please join me at table. You’re a transform, I understand…and a very attractive one. I’m not sure I approve of such an art, but…if it must be, obviously you’re a masterpiece. Are you pleased with your new self?”

“I’ve been this way for some time,” Mary said. “It’s second nature now.” Or should be. “Colonel Sir, breakfast isn’t really necessary…I’d just as soon—”

“Breakfast for me is essential and as absolute dictator of all I survey—your country’s opinion of me—surely I have the right to eat before being cross examined.” He smiled his most ingratiating smile. “Please.”

She would gain nothing by resisting his hospitality. He pulled a chair out for her and she sat facing a stack of leatherbound volumes in French. Three of the small servants entered through a single side door, carefully pushed aside stacks of books until a space across one end was clear, set two place settings—the silverware and plates ornately initialed S.B.—and then brought in bowls of fruit, covered plates of broiled fish and ham, steamed rice, curried shrimp and kippers. Yardley sat to the feast with an audible sigh.

“I’ve been up since four this morning,” he confided. “Only coffee and panbread.”

Mary ate enough to satisfy her hunger and be distantly polite but said nothing. The food was excellent. Yardley finished a large plate quickly, pushed it aside, shoved back his chair and said, “Now on to business. You’re convinced Goldsmith committed the crimes you accuse him of?”

“A grand jury was convinced enough to indict him.”

“Ah. He called me, you see, to say he was coming and that he was ‘in a rough.’ That’s colloquial, I assume. He said he would soon be accused of the murder of eight people. He needed sanctuary. I asked him if he was guilty. He said he was. He assumed I would protect him under any circumstances.” Yardley shook his head dubiously. “I invited him to come.

“Right after his phone call I began to receive clues that I myself was about to be indicted by your government on quite different charges. I haven’t had time to meet with Emanuel but he’s here.”

“We’d like to make arrangements for extradition,” Mary said. “I understand our governments aren’t cooperating right now, but when—”

“There probably won’t be such a ‘when’ for some time, years perhaps,” Yardley said, contemplating his empty plate with a long skeptical face. “You’re aware of the Raphkind controversies, aren’t you? Recent history.”

Mary nodded.

“You’ll pardon me if I do most of the talking…I seem to be the one with the information to relay and we only have an hour or so…Quite a generous amount of time considering I’m facing a full scale Dominican rebellion in Santiago and Santo Domingo. I’m doing this you understand only because Emanuel Goldsmith was someone special to me.”

Mary inclined. Yardley put his arms on the table, leaned forward and lifted his hands to square the air before him. “Here’s how it is. I made a good many deals with President Raphkind, who believed as I do that justice demands more than simple therapy for criminals. Crime is not a disease that can be treated by doctors; it must be treated in a way that satisfies the common people, and the common people demand retribution to fit the crime.

“Raphkind found enough resistance that he rearranged your Supreme Court. He was accused of assassination, I believe…Probably guilty. He cut secret deals with vigilante organizations. Now I agree, he made a nightmarish mess of things and he was perhaps the most vicious and reprehensible leader in the history of your country, but…”

Mary could join this spin easily enough. “He was the man in charge,” she said with a wry smile.

Yardley regarded the smile with frank suspicion. “Surely not even the police supported him after the revelations.”

“No. Not officially.”

“Well. Whoever’s in charge, when the USA speaks firmly all of our little nations tremble. And truth to tell his ideal legal system was not too dissimilar to our own. We treat crimes with more than just therapy.”

“You use hellcrowns,” Mary said.

“We do indeed. Raphkind’s people arranged to make export deals for clandestine delivery. Your vigilantes obtained a number of hellcrowns from our reserves at a discount…Raphkind was hounded to suicide by public outcry over the Justice Friedman case. Everything came unraveled for him so he chose the silver bullet of Christophe—poison, in his case—rather than the tumbrels. He would have been therapied if convicted, I presume. Still, he preferred death to public dishonor.”

“You’re still exporting hellcrowns,” Mary said.

“Not directly to the USA. We supply a world wide market and all of our contacts are legitimate. Raphkind was the sole exception and what could I do? He could have caused Hispaniola serious harm. He didn’t need the services of our soldiers by the beginning of his second term, having wrapped up his actions in Bolivia and Argentina. He was riding a wave of immense popularity. I could see no alternative but to supply hellcrowns.”

Mary listened impassively.

“Be that as it may hellcrowns are legal in the nation of Hispaniola. Their appropriate usage is just, in my opinion. The laws are very strict and firmly administered. Confession is sufficient for a court to pass sentence.”

“Selectors don’t hold formal court proceedings,” Mary said.

“Theirs is the politics of an underground resistance,” Yardley said. “I don’t presume to pass judgment on them or on any aspect of your society. Hispaniola has only the power to react, to stay alive, and so far it’s done very well under my command.”

“Where is Goldsmith?” Mary asked.

“He is nearby, ninety kilometers from here, in the Thousand Flowers Prison.”

“And you didn’t meet with him? Your friend?”

Yardley’s face hardened. “I have my reasons. Primary reason, no time. Secondary reason, I heard his confession. He wanted to escape to Hispaniola to find sanctuary. He thought to impose on my friendship after committing a horrible and senseless crime. Even my very best friend—and Emanuel while a good friend is not that—cannot presume I will violate the laws of Hispaniola. We have no formal extradition treaties. We do accept criminals from other nations for incarceration, however, formally and otherwise.”

Mary had heard of this; she did not think it relevant until now. “They’re kept in the Thousand Flowers Prison?”

“And elsewhere. We have five such international prisons. Some governments pay well for this service. But Goldsmith…We will not charge the USA for him. He stays here.”

“Why? The laws of my country—”

“Your country would treat him and release him, a new man. He does not deserve such leniency. The misery of the relatives of his victims lives on. Why should he not suffer too? Retribution is the core of all legal systems. We are simply more honest here.”

“He was your friend,” Mary said, dumfounded. “He adored you.”

“All the worse. He betrayed all of his friends, not just those he killed.”

“But nobody knows why he killed them,” Mary said, forced into the uncomfortable position of devil’s advocate. “If he truly is unbalanced and not responsible…”

“That is not my concern. We do not execute prisoners here. We conduct our own sort of therapy. And you know very well, those who undergo the hellcrown never repeat their crimes again.”

“He’s in a clamp?”

“If not at this moment then by the end of the day. Judgment has been made.”

Mary leaned back in her chair, momentarily shocked beyond words. “I never expected such a thing,” she said softly.

“We do your work for you, my dear,” Yardley said, reaching forward to tap her knuckles with a finger. “You’ll be taken to Thousand Flowers. The prisoner will be shown to you. Then I imagine sometime in the next three or four days arrangements will be made with your government and you can return to Los Angeles. You can close your casebooks. Emanuel Goldsmith will never leave Thousand Flowers. Nobody has ever escaped; we guarantee that to all our subscriber nations.”

She shook her head. The room with its tens of thousands of books felt as if it might close in on her. “I demand the release of Goldsmith into my custody,” she said. “In the name of international law and common decency.”

“Good, good,” Yardley said. “But Goldsmith came here voluntarily and he has openly admired and supported our laws and reforms. It is only just and decent that he should live by his beliefs. Unless you have something particularly clever and observant to add, I think our meeting is at an end.”

The double doors opened and Soulavier entered. “Mademoiselle Choy is to be shown Emanuel Goldsmith in Thousand Flowers and then, when I give the word, put in touch with her country’s embassy in extension. Thank you for your patience, Mademoiselle.”

Yardley stood and gestured at the door. Six uniformed men entered and passed around Soulavier. Soulavier stepped into the room, took her arm and led her into the hall.

“That is a rare privilege,” he said. “I myself have never breakfasted with Colonel Sir. Now please come. It is two hours’ journey from here to the prison. The roads are not the best and there will be much military traffic. It is not so very far from Santiago, after all.”