—Zetetic Commentaries
The smell of antiseptics tainted the air. Leslie hated illness and death. But even more, he hated hospitals, as embodiments of these disasters. He recognized the danger of this emotional reaction. In Zetetic terms—in terms stolen from the general semanticists, who had stolen it from the earlier German philosophers—it was a reification. It was the mapping of an idea (death) onto a real-life object (the hospital) that did not quite correspond correctly. It was a perfect example of a mental map that did not correspond to the actual terrain. Mistakes like this led inevitably to horrible fates, such as the fate that had befallen Jim Mayfield.
Even recognizing his erroneous reification, Leslie hated hospitals. It was hard to act with wisdom as great as your understanding.
Lila led the way through the hospital; a ragtag collection of software engineers followed her hasty footsteps. Leslie’s eyes glistened as he reflected on the upcoming meeting of the Sling software team. He knew it would be the last one.
Partings seemed to be an inevitable defect of the Information Age. The rapidly networked project teams quickly achieved their purposes, and the fulfillment of those purposes led to an equally rapid breakup.
Leslie knew what would happen next. He had come to this point many times on projects in the past. All the team members would swear to get together in the future. All of them would electronically send mail to one another at slowly lengthening intervals. None of them would know exactly when the spirit of the team had slipped away, though all would understand eventually that the spirit had indeed gone. Of the members of the Sling team, only Leslie would know that the Sling spirit had slipped away with the end of this last meeting.
But for today, for this moment of triumph, their shared accomplishment transcended the petty failings of individual human beings. Lila even smiled at Kurt as she opened the door to Juan’s room; Kurt smiled back as he stepped through. Flo and Ronnie followed. Leslie entered last, so that he could quietly occupy a corner. He slipped his bag from his shoulder and smiled as he remembered the bags contents.
Juan had trouble focusing his eyes. He squinted and blinked often, but he greeted everyone with a wiry laugh. “Good God! Is the whole town of Yakima here?”
Lila shook back her hair. “Not quite. Only all the people who had to find bugs in your software.” She grasped his hand for a lingering moment. Perhaps this sliver of the team, Juan and Lila, would go on together beyond the end of the Sling.
Lila held a gift-wrapped package in her left hand. “Nathan’s sorry he couldn’t make it. He’s with the president, waiting to hear about Nell Carson. They’re operating on her again today.” She held the package out to Juan. “He told me to give you this.” She frowned. “He said you should practice with it.”
“Sounds ominous.” Juan took the package. A tremor ran across his shoulders, and he grunted, “It better not be a computer, that’s all I can say.”
“It’s not a bomb,” Kurt offered. “I listened to it carefully before I got into the car with it.”
Juan unwrapped the box slowly, savoring the surprise. Suddenly it fell apart, and a wine bottle fell into his hands. Juan scrutinized the label. “Fume Blanc,” Juan’s grin took on Cheshire proportions. “A fine wine. It would be wasted on an alcoholic, but it’s perfect for a wine taster.”
An awkward silence followed for a moment. Juan asked, “So what’s everybody doing now?”
After a moment’s emptiness, Ronnie spoke up. “Well, you know Lightcraft Corporation—the people who make the WeatherWatcher? They want to improve the handling of their planes in mountainous areas.” He glanced sidelong at Flo. “We’re considering putting a bid on it.”
Flo nodded. “Yes.” A deep amusement surfaced around her eyes. “We may find ourselves working for my daughter.”
Kurt spoke next. “And I’ll probably go to work for the Institute, as an employee rather than as a subcontractor. They aren’t quite sure what they’ll do with me yet.” He shrugged. “I’m not quite sure what I’ll do with them, either. Except I’ll fight the Army bureaucrats—the ones I tried to leave behind a year ago.’ He rolled his eyes, then turned serious. “But I have another message from Nathan.” He drew an envelope from his pocket. “I’m not sure what it is, but he wanted me to read it to everybody.”
He ripped the envelope apart and started reading Nathan’s words. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to today’s meeting of the Sling team. But frankly, I’m not too sorry; I hate endings. And anyone who reflects too long on the completion of this project will miss a moment of true wonder. The end of the Sling Project is the beginning of more futures than we can imagine.
“But before we move into those beginnings, I want to discuss the meaning of our success. I’m sure some of you have asked yourselves, how long will the success we created here last?” A shudder passed through the whole group, as if everyone had indeed asked themselves this question. “If you wonder, then I want you to remember this.
“Our success has brought the human mind directly into service in the defense of ourselves and our friends. In the heart of each Hunter there dwells a small part of each of our minds. Within each Hunter small extensions of our souls watch unceasingly, protecting us from all men and nations who don’t believe that freedom is important. Henceforth, those extensions of our souls will protect us for as long as such protection is necessary, for as long as men live who do not respect the rights of others. And so, for those who have given of their souls—for Lila, and Kurt, and Leslie, and Juan, and Ronnie, and Flo, and—” Kurt’s voice broke, to continue in a whisper “—and for Amos, the free men of the world give their thanks.”
Leslie lost the thread of the conversation. Though the message had been for everyone, Nathan had nevertheless found his way home to the source of Leslie’s own disquiet. He had not thought of the Sling that way—as a permanent melding of the souls of the team. The cooperative spirit he had thought they would lose now lived within the circuits of the Hunters they had stationed around the world. The spirit had not died; it had merely faded from view. What they had created would indeed continue on, until replaced by something better. That was as it should be.
His sorrow lifted. At a lull in the conversation, he stepped forward, opening his bag. “There’s an important part of the job we haven’t completed yet,” he said with mock sternness.
The room grew quiet as he pulled items from the bag: a steel pan, a cigarette lighter, a bottle of Jim Beam bourbon, and a folded roll of paper. He cleared his throat, taking on the tone of an announcer. “The time has come,” he said quietly, “for the honorable tradition of the PERT chart burning.”
Juan understood first. “Beautiful! Thanks for remembering.”
With solemn care, Leslie unraveled the paper. It was a miniature of the PERT chart that had filled the hall in the Zetetic Institute. One important change had been made: green—the green of successful completion—now covered every box on every path. The pinks and reds and blues still marked all the twisting roadblocks they had met along the way—a commemoration of the pain they had shared along the path, a chapter of history rendered in wordless color. But green boxes had grown around the red, encasing every disaster in healing tones. The green had seeped all the way to the final box, the ending milestone that held the words, “SLING COMPLETE.”
Leslie placed the chart in the pan and whetted it with the bourbon. Twisting one end into a wick, he lighted the alcohol and the paper. A bluish flame flickered from the obsolete chart, and smoky aroma tinged the antiseptic smell of the room.
Laughter and idle chatter grew loud. Eventually the chatter softened as, one by one, the people who had built the Sling departed. Soon only Juan, Lila, and he himself remained. He wished the two of them well and departed.
Leaving, he rejoiced at this quiet dissolution of a great team. He would have liked the Sling team to continue indefinitely, but the Institute’s teachings reminded him of the consequences of that alternative: any attempt to drive a team bey
ond its natural life would lead to the creation of an institution. Once the culture had hardened into the rigid torpor of bureaucracy, this travesty of a team would feed upon the bright cooperative light that had created it, until the light died, leaving a cold emptiness darker than the absence of light.
Well, the future Nathan had mentioned in his note had already arrived. Leslie had a new contract with the L-5 Corporation, a chance to help build the SpaceRing. And the SpaceRing project would require a team . His mind filled with the questions and issues he needed to resolve before he could bring that team together.
Kira stood before the flat dullness of the apartment door and stared into the peephole. Of course, from her side of the door, she could see nothing. But she had come here planning to feign disorder and confuse the enemy; let the confusion start even now, before the door opened. Her effort to invoke confusion had worked the last time; she wondered if it would work again. With a light flick of her wrist, she raised the knocker and tapped in a bright rhythm.
She waited. Dull thuds from inside suggested the movements of a large man. When the sound stopped, she knew he had come to the peephole and that his confusion mounted with every passing moment. She smiled for him.
Bill flung the door aside. His eyes gleamed. His smile reminded Kira of an engineer who has completed the careful, painstaking analysis of what he needs to do, who can now throw himself headlong into the completion of his project.
Kira smiled in response to that engineer’s smile, then stopped as she remembered that Bill was not an engineer. He always threw himself headlong, too often without making the painstaking analysis that must precede flight.
He stood with all his weight on one leg, his head tossed to the side, the tawny curls of his hair touching the door’s edge. He watched her with simple pleasure.
“Let me in,” she said. He did not yield. She stepped forward.
Laughing, with inseparably quick movements, his head came up, his left leg pinned the door, and he released his handhold upon it. He reached out with both arms and grasped Kira around the waist. Before she could object, he turned and carried her into the living room.
Kira twisted against the strength of his hands, a futile effort that nonetheless had the proper effect: he chose to release her. She took two steps, turned, and confronted her adversary, fully aware of the flushed heat on her face. “The last time I saw you, you looked crumpled because you’d found out what a dupe you had been. You look happier now.”
“I’ve had what you Zetetics call a ‘revelation.’ After that day when you came here to destroy me, I spent a week figuring out what to do next. Now I know.” A large fist smacked down against an equally large palm. “I know who to get. Daniel Wilcox is dead meat.”
“I see.” The thought of Bill rampaging against the tobacco industry thrilled and scared her at the same time. It thrilled her because it would save lives, but it scared her as an act of vengeance for her mother. Bill planned to attack Wilcox only for vengeance. She continued coolly, “So you’re going to make the same kind of vicious, distorted attack on him that you made on us.”
He opened his mouth to say yes, realized her purpose, and pressed his lips together. “Actually, I may not have to,” he said.
“Oh? Why not?”
Uncertainty wavered in his eyes. “Daniel Wilcox seems bent on destroying himself. He’s making some strange business deals.” His glance turned conspiratorial. “What do you know about it?”
Kira shrugged. “I don’t know anything about his plans anymore. I’ve retired from the agency handling Wilcox-Morris.” She considered telling him about her more recent activities—the new political campaigns to protect the
Institute and the Information Age, campaigns for which she now wanted Bills help. “I think Wilcox has found out who I am.”
“Really? Well, 1 know who you are.”
Kira laughed. “Really? Who am I? Is this a guessing game?”
“You re a woman with so many emotional biases about the Zetetic Institute that I’m overwhelmed by the hypocrisy of your last lecture to me.”
1 see. I guess you do know who I am.” She started to defend herself, then stopped. “It’s possible that my emotional involvement has prejudiced my view of the Institute. I can’t judge it. Can you?”
His eyes glittered. She had thrown herself open to his judgment, and now he held the power to strike at her ego.
But the same shred of intellectual honesty that in the last analysis had not allowed him to deny die facts surrounding his comet-like rise to success did not now allow him to bruise her unjustly. “Probably not.”
She gave a short laugh, as if to acknowledge his weakness—a weakness she knew as a virtue. With the ease of perfect security, she threw herself onto his couch. She lay back, half-closing her eyes, her hands clasped behind her head. “You have anything to drink in this place?”
“I have scotch. I have orange juice. Which would you prefer?”
“Your choice. Whichever one you’re having.”
After a moment’s pause, he muttered, “Orange juice.” He went into the kitchen.
Kira chuckled at his decision not to bring out the scotch. She figured that he figured that he would need all his wits to continue this verbal duel. “Do you know Charles Somerset?” she yelled at him through the room dividers.
“He’s the project manager of FIREFORS, right? Or rather, he used to be; FIREFORS no longer exists.”
“Right. Well, he’s come to the Institute, and we’ve found out that he has a rare and spectacular talent. He has a sixth sense for subliminal advertising.”
“What does that mean?” Bill returned with two huge glasses. He sat down on the couch, just close enough to make Kira aware of his nearness.
“It means that he can detect, with his conscious mind, the suggestive signals that advertisers use to get at a persons subconscious.” She slurped at her orange juice, making more noise than she needed to. “He says he can smell it. Yesterday he smelled it in a literal sense. He was shopping in some department store, and he could tell that something odd was happening. The shoppers were just a little too intent on their purchases. Several other Zetetics were looking around, puzzled; they could feel it, too. Well, after analyzing his sensations for a bit, Charles realized that someone had filled the store with ‘new car smell/ Not too much—not enough so that people could recognize it—but enough to tingle somewhere deep inside. Charles was the only one who figured it out.” She nodded. “You should come to the Institute, too. Who knows? Even you might have a talent.”
Bill growled, then mumbled something.
“What?” Kira asked.
“I said, I have been to the Institute. I’m working on developing a Zetetic form of newscasting.”
“I see. Ive noticed that your newscasts seem less ridiculous lately. Of course, you have a long way to go.” Kira had known before coming here that Bill was enrolled at the Institute. He had made great progress, in fits and starts. It seemed somehow inappropriate for her to compliment him, but her intellectual honesty was too great to leave it at that. “Actually, I’m delighted with some of your recent stuff. In fact, I’m worried about you—a Zetetic newscasting style would still be a ratings disaster, even though there are more Zetetic viewers every day. You’ll have to be careful for a few more years, until we have a large enough group to form a significant sector of the audience.”
She watched Bill shift his position, again and again, unable to suppress his drive to action. She considered his qualifications. He was smart, he was witty, he was too handsome, and he was passionate about anyone or anything with whom he got involved. In short, he had potential. The only question was, could he be trained? She would have to work on that.
The newscast that had been murmuring in the background suddenly became the focus of Bill’s attention. “Yes,” a military spokesman was saying, “the Hunters that helped our boys win the war were actually developed under the auspices of the Army’s regular research and development syst
em. So were the enhanced HighHunters used on the Night of Steel Sleet. Contrary to the media’s distorted versions of the recent past, the Sling JProject did not expose flaws in the Defense Department’s policies—it demonstrated the health and vitality of those policies.”
Bill leaped from the sofa. “Liars and fools,” he screamed. “The Zetetic Institute saved your asses. The Institute is the real hero of the war.” He sat down, muttering, “The Army is riddled with deadbeats. We have to get rid of them.”
Kira thought about the intricacies of the facts that came closer to the truth. Yes, there were many deadbeats in the Army, and incompetents, and politicians without regard for anything but their next promotion. But there were also the thousands of men who stood and fought with their tanks, with their rifles, with their knives, and finally, with their bare hands, in the face of a seemingly invincible enemy. Those men were the heroes. Even the Institute could not build a machine to replace human courage.
But these points were too subtle for Bill’s current frame of mind. Kira took a deep breath. His training would require long, patient hours.
Fortunately, she suspected she would enjoy it.
Daniel stepped close to the wall of glass. Outside, dark grays swirled through white clouds, hovering above trees stripped by winter. The winter had passed, but spring had not quite arrived. Daniel wondered if he would see another spring from the top floor of the Wilcox Building. In a rare gesture of fatigue, he exhaled sharply.
The warm moisture of his breath condensed on the glass. He drew his finger through the tiny droplets, leaving a trail that ended with his fingerprint. As the droplets evaporated, his fingerprint faded as well, disappearing into the past with the winter.
The Zetetic Institute had won. No one knew it yet. Not even the Zetetics themselves grasped the significance of their victory. No doubt Nathan Pilstrom could grasp what had happened easily enough. But equally without doubt, Nathan had had too many other concerns lately to take the time to deduce all the ramifications of recent events.
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