The Curiosity

by Stephen Kiernan

  You throw up your hands. “Do your worst.”

  “Who is Amos?”

  You gulp in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Got you there, didn’t I?” He sidles back. “Why don’t you just spill the whole beans on it?”

  “Ho ho. So you found out about Amos Cartwright. Congratulations. I would never have thought you clever enough for that.”

  “You will stop underestimating me sooner or later, pal.”

  “Probably later.” You stroll behind your desk, stalling, wheeling your seat forward till your stomach presses against the drawers. “What do you know about Amos?”

  “Everything.” He digs a notebook from his rear pocket. “I just need you to confirm the details.”

  He’s bluffing. He knows zero. Crumbs at best. You adjust your papers. There is the envelope for Billings, atop a pile of greater urgencies. This day’s necessities are requiring more time than they deserve. You roll the chair back, again deciding to make this conversation travel the shortest possible distance. “Then find the details for yourself, Daniel. All I can tell you is what exists in the plain public record.”

  He does not answer. You fold your hands on the desk, fingers woven. “Very well. Amos Cartwright was an international grand master in chess who lost all standing and medals when a tattletale revealed him to be a cheat. After which he hung himself.”

  Dixon has a pen out now, and he pauses in note taking. “How is it possible to cheat at chess?”

  “Don’t be a fool. There is no deception in the game of kings. But cheating the World Chess Federation is simple, if you use the power of reason. Imagine for example that you colluded with the person who compiles the draw sheets for tournaments, to assure that you would always be competing on an easy side, with all of the difficult challengers placed on the other half. They would exhaust themselves eliminating each other, while you played easy match upon easy match. Eventually one of their number would attain the finals, fatigued, and intimidated because you had breezed through the other side. That last one might still defeat you, but you’d place second at least. And often your advantage would prove insurmountable. Thus would you amass international standing, either by beating weaklings or by placing runner-up dozens of times.”

  “Amazing.”

  “Or so a certain federation official confessed, long after retiring, due to a deathbed discovery of morals he apparently had lacked during his professional career. Which revelation led the discredited Amos Cartwright to tie a noose. It made a minor noise in the media.”

  “What does a chess cheater have to do with the project?”

  You look down at your hands as if they held aces. “Finding that answer would require a person with one hundred times your reporting capacity.”

  Dixon snaps his notebook shut. “One sign of a stupid man is when he’s too free with his insults.”

  “You are saying Erastus Carthage is stupid?”

  “The easiest kind: overconfident. But it’s like I said before.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m going to enjoy the crashing sound.”

  He turns on his heel and is gone.

  It takes several minutes to collect yourself. Amos Cartwright is not a name you expected to hear from that buffoon. Nonetheless, there is no way he can connect Amos to yourself, none. You have covered every potential avenue. It has been the work of decades, subject to more thought and care than cells or reanimation or your own breathing. He might write damaging things about the project, but not based on that.

  Thomas stands at your elbow. “Sir, what is our link to Amos Cartwright?”

  “I used his name for our security password, that is all.”

  “Why would you choose such a person?”

  “Because, Thomas, we are as different from him as it is possible to be. He was a cheater and we have integrity, he squandered his intellect and we exercise ours diligently, he lied for most of his life and we will never lie, never.”

  Thomas bowed. “I see my question irritated you and I apologize. Besides, how much damage can Dixon do to us?”

  “Far less than the good he has already done.”

  “What about the investors, though? These cryogenics people always seem so close, but then turn reluctant. Isn’t Dixon a danger?”

  “Thomas, let us apply reason to the situation. There is zero we can do to control Mr. Dixon at this point. Therefore I decline to expend a moment’s further thought on him. As for our potential investors, even a novice fisherman knows that trout are not intelligent, just skeptical.”

  “I’m not following you, sir. Our investors are like trout?”

  You push back your chair. “What we need is something to stir them from their suspicious place on the bottom. Then we need a good lure, to hook them. But what?”

  You cross to the windows and peer downward. The protesters have finished their daily demonstration for the benefit of the noon news. They’ll rest until it’s time for the six o’clock performance. The prior night’s arrests brought reinforcements. There must be nearly a thousand of them down there now, all in their absurd red shirts. Since that firebrand from Kansas arrived, the one with the superhero good looks, these people have shown far greater organization and media savvy. Sometime it might be interesting to meet him. For now, most of the group is gathered on the lawn across the way, eating box lunches. Devout members are kneeling on the sidewalk outside the front doors. It occurs to you that these people are very likely praying for you, or about you at least. Sweet of them, really. And there is your answer.

  “Thomas, we need additional incitement of our fans.”

  “Those protesters are our fans, sir?”

  “See how they lavish us with devotion. Like Mr. Dixon, they’ve brought us valuable attention, too. The question is how we use them next.”

  “To stir the bottom of the stream?”

  “That’s my Thomas. Yes, and I know just the thing. I’d like to extend them an invitation tomorrow. Simple, elegant, certain to stir. I’ll need your help.”

  “Of course, sir. And galvanizing them against us will help the project how?”

  “The more fervently your enemies hate you, the more they confirm your importance. But first, please fetch me Subject One. Our most convincing salesman needs to start work. It’s time we prepared him to meet our future investors.”

  “You mean it’s time to use our bait.”

  You wag a finger at him. “There’s a smart lad.”

  Now, who dares to say you are incapable of managerial charm? The man leaves the room positively beaming.

  PART V

  Frenzy

  CHAPTER 34

  Entirely Too Late

  (Kate Philo)

  The note waiting on my desk was penned in handwriting so impeccable it had to be from Thomas, but the true author was equally unmistakable. In my office—NOW.

  Oddly enough, I felt no fear. Not even apprehension. At that moment Jeremiah Rice was in my kitchen, reading a weathered paperback of Treasure Island I hadn’t even known I owned. I last saw him comfortably at the table, in the chair that gets morning sun, with the odd but endearing habit of sitting on his hand whenever it was not turning pages like a speed reader. By contrast, Erastus Carthage seemed in every way smaller. Thomas hadn’t just underlined the word now, he’d capitalized it. Was I supposed to be intimidated by handwriting? Honestly.

  All morning I’d run through the possibilities. Online I’d found a promising lab in upstate New York. It specialized in blood projects but they’d just landed a massive cell chemistry grant that would need administering. Also there were university postdoc positions, in Missouri and Iowa, that would do for a transition job. I could have e-mailed a résumé before leaving the apartment, the cover letter copied to Tolliver, my former mentor at the academy, so he could begin the background lobbying.

  Yet
I hadn’t. Instead I filled my coffee mug, caressed Jeremiah’s shoulder, enjoyed my usual walk to work. It was a stunning morning, the previous day’s humidity burned off into clear skies. The Charles River winked and glimmered as I crossed the MIT Bridge. I wore a summer dress, green with small white flowers. I felt eighteen.

  By the time I reached the loading dock entry, I’d convinced myself to follow the Lazarus Project thread all the way, to whatever conclusion it reached. Carthage’s note only simplified matters. If he fired me, it would end in an hour. I’d be home for lunch, résumés mailed, with time left to drive Jeremiah to Cape Cod for dinner. If Carthage didn’t fire me, back to my desk I’d go, to see what needed doing. I stopped, there in the hallway, realizing that for once I did not have a list of urgent tasks waiting. I’d already grown that disconnected from the project, that connected to Jeremiah.

  Thomas was not in his usual place, manning the desk outside, but I could hear him laughing inside. I knocked, striding in to a complete surprise. Thomas sat in Carthage’s throne, holding a remote control, while the egocentric boss himself stood across the room. They were laughing at a giant television screen. It was the most private moment I’d seen the two men share, and I began backing out of the room.

  “A bishop,” Carthage cried. “We’ve just been denounced by a bishop.”

  Thomas laughed. “Only God is the author of life,” he said in a false basso voice.

  “I’ll come back later,” I said.

  “No, no, your timing is perfect,” Carthage said. He wiped an eye with his sleeve. “Watch, Dr. Philo.” Sobering, he pointed at the screen. “Watch, and learn something.”

  Thomas pressed the remote; images of a newscast played backward in fast motion. He was still chuckling to himself.

  “I didn’t even know you had a TV in here.”

  “What you don’t know, Dr. Philo, would take a lifetime to catalog.”

  I bit my tongue. “Here,” Thomas said. “Here’s the best part.”

  The video began, a huge crowd wearing red shirts, gathered around a man in black with a Roman collar. People behind him waved signs or their hands.

  “This person would be . . . ?”

  “The bishop of Massachusetts,” Thomas said. “His predecessor was a cardinal.”

  “Just listen,” Carthage said.

  “. . . conflicts throughout history between science and religion, clashes between reason and faith. So we must revert to basic principles, to the fundamental teaching from the Garden of Eden forward, which is simply this: only God is the author of life, and only the Almighty decides when life shall begin or end.” The bishop licked a fingertip, turned a page. “We have prayed for the people engaged in this project because we reverence learning. Our faith includes belief in humanity’s power to raise itself to greater heights of knowledge and understanding. But we have worried, too, about the aims of this project. Now, with this scurrilous invitation . . .”—he held up a sheet of paper—“we see these people as they truly are: sinners as we all happen to be, but unlike us, they are intent on diminishing human life, on reducing it to chemical equations, rather than upholding it as the sacred gift of a Lord who with generosity and love created us in His divine image.”

  The crowd cheered, but the bishop raised a hand to interrupt them.

  “We have been patient. We have welcomed the man who embodies their accomplishments into our city and businesses and homes. I’m told he has even visited our cathedral. And we will continue to greet penitents with open arms.”

  “I love that,” Thomas says. “As if he wouldn’t rather—”

  “But we cannot conscience sacrilege. We cannot condone the trivialization of life, especially under the guise of false immortality. We cannot allow this . . .”—he shook the paper again—“this invitation to murder to go unremarked. We are left with one recourse.” He raised one hand high, as if proclaiming a benediction.

  “This is the best part,” Thomas said.

  “I hereby call upon the mayor of this city, the city council, the governor of this state, and even the vice president of the United States, who was unduly hasty in giving his endorsement to this enterprise . . . I call upon each of these individuals and the solemn responsibility they hold in the public trust, to shut this project down.”

  The crowd began chanting. “Shut it down, shut it down.” The handsome protest leader came forward, waving his arms like he was conducting a choir. “Shut it down. Shut it—”

  Thomas muted the sound. “ ‘I call upon each of these individuals,’ ” he said, rising from the chair. “Dr. Carthage, that invitation was a masterstroke.”

  “Now remember, Thomas, this one was your idea.”

  “Hardly, sir. I’m here if you need me,” he said, strolling out of the office.

  Carthage cleared his throat, pressed a button, the TV went blank. A panel of wood slid out to conceal it. “Enough levity for one day,” he said.

  “What have you done to get people so angry? What was on that paper?”

  “A bluff.” He sidled over to his desk. “An extremely successful bluff.”

  “Where was that crowd? When did all of this happen?”

  “Not ninety minutes ago,” Carthage said. “Right outside our front door. You would have strolled directly into it had you come to work on time.”

  “I didn’t have anything pressing, first thing today.”

  Carthage sat with a sigh. “Dr. Philo, I hardly know where to begin. So many things are occurring at a higher intensity now, so much has changed. You seem unaware.”

  I took one of the chairs angled toward his desk. “Enlighten me.”

  He raised one eyebrow, but checked himself, pushing a few papers aside. “Well. Our friend Mr. Dixon is a friend no longer, and seeks to do us harm.”

  “From the looks of that coverage, we’re doing that just fine by ourselves.”

  “Also we are nearly out of funds. Many investors have come forward, eager to apply our technology to people they are maintaining in a cryogenic state. I had intended to provide them with conclusive evidence, by enlisting the aid of our undeniable success story, by introducing them to Subject One—”

  “There is no such person.”

  “—only to discover, abracadabra: he is not here any longer.”

  I’d expected this much, so I tried my own bluff. “Is that right, Doctor?”

  “Let’s not play games, shall we? Four different security cameras recorded that you and he snuck out of this building—”

  “We did not sneak anywhere, because we were not doing anything wrong.”

  “—yesterday morning, sometime after eight.”

  “It was 8:21,” came the call from outside Carthage’s office.

  “Thank you, Thomas.” Carthage picked up a pencil, brand-new, not even sharpened, pointing the eraser at me. “I am thoroughly uninterested in your justifications for your irresponsible conduct, your possible romantic conquests—”

  “There is no such—”

  “Please stop talking, Dr. Philo. You are swimming in waters far out of your depth. A bishop is the least of it. While you’ve been off having adventures in hand-holding, the world has moved on. The more defensively you speak, the worse you make it for yourself.”

  “Please spare me the brimstone. What are you going to do, fire me?”

  “Is that what you fear?”

  “Not even slightly.”

  “Because being fired is the minimum that will happen, if Subject One is not in my office by four o’clock. Do you understand? Without dietary oversight, the consequences for him are catastrophic. The stakes for this project are likewise monumental. If things go any further awry, unemployment will be the least of your worries.”

  “My sister, Chloe, is a litigator. She says there are two kinds of people: those who threaten to sue you, and those who do it. Which kin
d are you, Dr. Carthage?”

  He looked amused by the question. He tapped the pencil eraser on his desk. “Have I not behaved, in the fourteen months I have employed you, in a consistent manner?”

  “You have, actually.”

  “And how would you describe that behavior?”

  “Honestly? Machiavellian. Manipulative. Grandiose.”

  “Insincere, ever? Hesitant? Afraid of giving offense, even once?”

  “You have always been exactly who you are.”

  “Is that, by your sister’s lexicon, one who merely threatens, or one who actually sues?”

  I looked down at my lap. I was still holding Thomas’s folded note. My summery dress felt frivolous, naive. “Sues.”

  “Have you any theories to persuade you that I would behave differently today?”

  I raised my head again. “On those other days, you held all the cards.”

  “Is that not the case now?”

  “No. The whole deck left here with me yesterday morning at 8:21.”

  “Dr. Philo.” He gripped the pencil with both hands, lowering them slowly. I realized from his white knuckles that he was livid, suppressing a massive rage with difficulty. “I will not attempt to beguile you out of your righteousness, however misguided. Nor persist in appeals to reason you seem unable to hear. Nor succumb to the temptation to toy with your foolhardy feminism. Persuading one novice scientist to abandon her ignorance is not my goal. The survival of this project is. Therefore I simply repeat, so there is no ambiguity: If by four P.M. today Subject One is not in my office—”

  “I know, I know, you’ll fire me.”

  “Hardly.” He laughed then, turning with a sick smile till his chair was sideways, his face in profile. “Little Miss Muffet, firing is nothing. I’ve canned multitudes over the years. I fired someone not an hour ago, a colleague of yours.”

  “Oh? What brilliant, dedicated person did you throw overboard today?”

  Ignoring the question, he waved his pencil like a conductor’s baton. “Firing merely forces one to update a pitiful exaggerated résumé, whine to some old professors, and find some cobwebby lab to call home for the rest of one’s tenured, worthless days. Firing is so insignificant, it should come wrapped in a bow.”