“Flowers evolved in order to be beautiful,” Rosalind had once told me, “and not merely to be beautiful, but to be sensual. Don’t ever make the mistake of thinking that because natural selection designed them to appeal to the aesthetic sensibilities of insects, any appeal they make to human aesthetics is mere coincidence. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, not to mention the organs of touch, hearing, taste and smell, but in terms of what our sense organs report to us, and how that information is neurologically translated into sensation and experience, all complex organisms have a great deal more in common than was once imagined. You’re a geneticist, so you’re well enough aware of the degree of kinship that exists between all organisms.”
“Some insects are beautiful too,” I remembered pointing out, “but some very definitely aren’t.”
“And some are both,” Rowland had chipped in. “Butterflies, dragonflies and the like all start off as ugly larvae.”
“Which means,” Rosalind had observed, “that beauty is attainable, even from ugly raw material, if only you have the trick of it. That what the real mission of genetic engineering is: to produce beauty…including, and perhaps especially, the beauty that is the true soul of erotic attraction, and stands in desperate need of purification.”
Given that kind of mind-set on the part of the genius of the place, it’s hardly surprising that the Crystal Palaces of Eden were filled with flowers that were truly beautiful, not merely in terms of their color, design and scent but in terms of the way they felt to the touch: their softness and their delicacy. It wasn’t the case that every bed of flowers was an orgy of sorts, but it was impossible not to take the suggestion that they might be: that botanical debauchery was not only possible, but potentially capable of surpassing any other kind. There were flowers whose petals were colored in such a way as to resemble child-like faces, and flowers designed to recall other parts of the human anatomy. Natural selection had, of course, got there long before Rosalind, in the artistry of orchids, but natural selection had always been an amateur, and had always been slow in its endeavors. Rosalind was a professional, and lightning fast by comparison.
Not only did the time pass quickly as I wandered, lonely as a cloud, through hosts of every kind of flower under the sun, but I actually began to enjoy myself, once I had settled my mind to absorption in my surroundings and shoved anxiety aside, pro tempore.
What, after all, did I have to worry about? Rosalind would ask me about Rowland; I would explain, apologetically, that I hadn’t heard from him; end of story. She wouldn’t want to spin things out any longer than I did, today of all days. All she wanted was to ask a question, and it wasn’t my fault that I didn’t have the ghost of an answer. I wouldn’t even mention the inconvenience that she’d caused me; I’d simply take the next available train to Bristol, and stay overnight there while awaiting the first northbound train in the morning. It was no big deal.
There is something essentially restful about the beauty of temperate flowers, and the quiet hum of friendly insects. Perhaps there was also a little something in the air of the Palaces, in spite of the bell-jars—something tranquilizing, if not actually euphoric.
It was not until five to four that I presented myself at the main door of the pyramid, and explained to the concierge that I had an appointment with Rosalind. I suspect that he was well aware of it, and only made a show of checking his palm to remind me who was boss, but he let me in, and had a junior employee guide me to the appropriate reception-room.
The pyramid was a very large structure; although its footprint was only a little larger than that of the Great Pyramid of Cheops, it was a good deal taller, its four faces being much more steeply sloped. The elevator buttons were numbered all the way up to thirty-two, but I knew that there were at least four floors above that, accessible only by strictly private means.
I was taken up to thirty, which seemed a little high for my obvious unimportance in the scheme of the Hive’s dealings, although I had been up considerably higher in the past. The room into which I was shown had a spectacular view, not merely of Eden but a substantial fraction of Exmoor, but I didn’t go to the window to stare out. I don’t usually suffer unduly from acrophobia, but I felt that the last thing I needed at present was any hint of vertigo. Instead, I sat down and waited.
Punctuality, they say, is the politeness of princes—which primitive generalization embraces queens—but Rosalind wasn’t being insulting in turning up twenty minutes late. She really was having a very busy day, and she had a lot on her mind.
She offered me a drink. I asked for a glass of water. She poured it for me, along with something a little stronger for herself.
“Thank you for coming, Peter,” she said, by way of an opening. “Magdalen would have wanted you to be here.” Then she added: “I assume that Rowland didn’t tell you he wouldn’t be coming, any more than he told us?” That wrong-footed me completely, shattering all my expectations at a stroke.
“I haven’t heard from him recently,” I said, glad to be able to offer it as a confirmation rather than an unwelcome reply to a probing inquiry.”
Rosalind sat down beside me. I tried to tell myself that she wasn’t trying to be intimidating, that she found close proximity no other human beings as awkward as I did, but I knew how disciplined she was, and how determined. She looked directly into my eyes. I couldn’t sustain her gaze for more than a second, now, even though I had trained myself, ten years before, to meet even her gaze, if and when the occasion warranted it, for as long as a minute.
Think of her as a work of art, I had told myself, then. Think of her as an artifice of exquisite beauty, not as a conscious human being. And if all else fails, remember that she’s a scientist, with a mind trained to objectivity.
There was no possibility of any psychological ploy of that sort working now. I tried to concentrate hard on my glass of water, looking down into its transparent depths.
She actually reached out and put her hand on my wrist, in a confidential and affectionate manner that was completely different from a formal and impersonal handshake. I had never known her do that before, even to Rowland or Magdalen.
“I’m worried about him, Peter,” she said. “I need to ask you for a favor.”
Oddly enough, that hit me like a bolt from the blue. In retrospect, perhaps I should have expected it. In retrospect, it almost seemed obvious—but it hadn’t seemed obvious in advance. Queen Rosalind of the Hive of Industry was asking me for a favor. Even though there was no logical reason why she shouldn’t, the idea had seemed somehow unthinkable.
“What favor?” I said, warily, and perhaps not altogether politely. In retrospect, I should have asked: “Why are you worried about him?”—but I didn’t. I had to know what favor it was that she wanted from me.
She was still touching my arm. “I want you to go to Venezuela,” she said. “I want you to visit Rowland—not for my sake, I hasten to add, but for his.”
I was so stunned I had virtual concussion. “Venezuela?” I repeated feebly. “I can’t….” That was entirely the wrong way to go about it, of course.
“Yes you can,” said Rosalind, firmly. “Whatever obstacles are in your path can be cleared. If you need some sort of financial recompense, you only have to say the word—but I know that it’s not something you’d do for money. It’s something you’ll do because you’re Rowland’s friend, and because he needs you. You do still think of yourself as his friend, don’t you?”
What could I say to that? What could I have said, even if it hadn’t been true?
“Yes,” I said, “but….”
“But you don’t feel that you can take my word for it that he needs you,” she said, effortlessly usurping the nascent statement and turning it to her own advantage. She removed her gentle hand from my wrist. “You’d rather hear it from him, I suppose, but you won’t…and that’s the most important reason why he needs you. I’m not asking you to be my ambassador, to try to patch things up between us, and I’m certainly no
t asking you to be my spy, to report back to me on exactly what he’s doing out there in that glorified termite-mound of his. I’m just asking you to be his friend, because I have reason to believe that he needs a friend just now. He needs someone to be with him, to talk to him, to provide some balance in his life, at least for a while. I don’t know how long that will take—I leave you to judge for yourself. Just be reassured that, no matter how long it takes, you won’t be the loser by it. If you’re still as determined now as you were ten years ago not to enter my employ, that’s fine—but know that the job you have is absolutely safe, and that if you want to move on, nothing will stand in the way of your ending up exactly where you want and need to be—put please, please, do as I ask and go to Venezuela.”
It wasn’t the thought of going to South America that made me hesitate. I’d come all the way to Exeter and beyond in the hope of seeing Rowland, and a plane journey to Trinidad wasn’t that much longer than a twice-interrupted train-journey across most of the length to England, although the subsequent boat-trip to the mouth of the Orinoco would doubtless add an extra day. I did want to see Rowland, and I was prepared to go to South America to do it, even if I had to pay my own plane fare—and I certainly wasn’t going to let Rosalind pay for it—but that wasn’t the point. The point was, did Rowland want to see me? Even if he had no idea that Rosalind had asked me to do it, as a favor to her, would he want to see me? Would he answer the door, if I were rude enough and foolish enough to turn up unannounced? And if I managed to get a message through to him asking for permission, wouldn’t he simply say no, even if he bothered to reply?
I should never have come, I thought. And having come, I should simply have gone. That security guard wouldn’t have—couldn’t have—stopped me.
But I had come, and I hadn’t gone when I’d had half a chance. I had stayed, in answer to Rosalind’s plea…and now, she was making another, much more demanding plea. I should have expected it—but I hadn’t. I couldn’t refuse, of course—that was unthinkable—but I could hesitate, at least for a few minutes. I could even prevaricate, in a tokenistic fashion.
“Why do you think he needs me?” I said, feebly—and even corrected that, hurriedly, to: “Why do you think he needs anybody?”
“Don’t you think he needs someone, right now?” she countered. “After all, you’re his friend. You know him as well as I do.” A low blow, that last one. There was no polite reply to that.
“I don’t know,” I said, truthfully. “He’s always been an independent character, and he’s always been a trifle uncommunicative, so I don’t like to read too much into his recent silence.”
“But you were expecting to see him here today, weren’t you?” she said, playing yet another trump card. “You must feel that his absence is so unusual as to be cause for alarm.”
“I don’t know why he wouldn’t come,” I had to admit.
“It was Magdalen’s funeral,” Rosalind said, emphatically, ramming home her irresistible advantage. “Can you imagine Rowland—the Rowland you knew, ten years ago—refusing to come to Magdalen’s funeral?”
I couldn’t answer that, so I lowered my head and took another sip of water. That was a mistake too. I should have said something to keep the exchange focused on Rowland.
“I’m sorry, Peter,” she said, suddenly changing tack. “That was insensitive of me, wasn’t it? You were in love with Magdalen once, weren’t you?”
I kept my head down and said nothing. She didn’t reach out to touch me again, though—she’d already fired that shot, and didn’t see any need to repeat it.
“I’m sorry that didn’t work out, in retrospect,” she said. “It wasn’t something I encouraged or discouraged, at the time…but if it had worked out, Rowland might not be in South America…and Magdalen might not be dead.”
That was an even lower blow, and I couldn’t help reacting. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, too sharply.
“Oh, my God!” she said, suddenly seeming confused—or putting on a convincing show. “I didn’t mean to imply that you were in any way responsible…please, Peter, you can’t suspect me of that. If anyone’s to blame for this…for all of this…it’s me. I can’t deny that, and I’m not at all sure that I can make amends for it. I’m not even sure that you can help—but I do want you to try, if you’re willing, because if anyone can help, it’s you. The last thing I want is for Rowland to go the same way as Magdalen, if….”
She stopped there, ever the master tactician. She wasn’t going to be the one to voice the suggestion that Rowland might already be dead, and that the only reason he hadn’t come to Magdalen’s funeral might be that he couldn’t, or the corollary suspicion that, even if he were still alive at present, he might be in imminent danger of going “the same way as Magdalen.”
I wasn’t going to voice any suspicion of that kind either. “I’ll call him,” I said, knowing that I had to promise her something. “If he gives me permission to visit, I’ll go to Venezuela—as soon as I can.”
She wanted more than that. “I think you should insist,” she said. “And if he doesn’t answer, I really do think you need to go, in order to find out why. Not for my sake—I know you don’t owe me anything—but for Rowland’s. It’s too late, alas, to do anything for Magdalen’s sake, but if she were still alive, I think she’d be here instead of me, begging you to go.”
Laying her lovely hand on my arm, I thought. Looking me in the eyes, as brazenly as she could. If Magdalen had still been alive, of course, I wouldn’t have been there to be begged…but that was a mere quibble.
“I’ll do what I can,” I promised, knowing as I did it that I was promising too much—but knowing, too, that I had absolutely no alternative.
She might, after all, have been right. Rowland might need me, whether he could admit it or not. I had to go. Rosalind knew that. She had only commanded me do it because she knew that I couldn’t command myself.
CHAPTER FIVE
I could have called Rowland from the train, but I didn’t want to do that. Putting it off until I got back to Lancaster didn’t make the homeward journey any easier, because I felt like an aristocrat in a tumbrel, on the way to the guillotine, every inch of the way, but it seemed more appropriate to call from home, from my own tiny republic, rather than from anyone else’s turf.
Fortunately, I had a good reason for calling, a justification for opening communication.
He didn’t answer his phone, of course—who does, nowadays?—and his answerphone wasn’t equipped with the customary simulation of his face, fitted to an AI capable of holding an elementary conversation. All I got was a blank screen and a taped message inviting me to say my piece. There wasn’t even a promise to get back to me. Rowland was no hypocrite.
“It’s Peter,” I said, although that datum would have been automatically recorded. “I’ve just got back from Magdalen’s funeral. I expected to see you there. I hoped to see you there. The fact that I didn’t see you there is worrying me intensely. We’ve been out of touch for far too long, and I’d really like to see you again. I’m more than willing to make the trip to Venezuela—I’m desperately in need of doing some tropical fieldwork, as it happens—but I’d be just as happy to see you here, if you’re in the mood for a sight and taste of England. At any rate, I really would like some proof that you’re still alive…and likely to remain so for the foreseeable future. Call me, please.”
I literally watched the clock, knowing that if he didn’t come back to me within five minutes, the ploy had probably failed—leaving me in something of a quandary. Four minutes elapsed before the bell chimed. I answered the phone myself—thus I suppose, answering my own question as to who ever bothered, in this day and age. Anxious people is the answer.
Images on phone screens aren’t always reliable, but I didn’t think that Rowland was the kind of person to employ electronic cosmetics. I assumed that I was looking at a live camera-feed, seeing him as he was. All things considered, he didn’t look too bad. He’d
always been handsome. In fact, the family resemblance between him and Rosalind was quite striking; the features looked almost as good on a man as on a woman, although no one would have thought of describing Rowland as “beautiful.” Magadalen, perhaps fortunately in some ways, had favored her anonymous father.
“Peter,” Rowland said, warmly. “I’m sorry it’s been so long. I’m glad you went to the funeral. Magdalen would have wanted you to be there.”
“She’d have wanted you to be there too,” I couldn’t help saying.
“I know,” he said, with a sigh that sounded perfectly sincere. “It’s just that it’s so very difficult to leave my work. It’s reached a very delicate stage. It’s not the sort of operation that can be put on hold for days on end. Magdalen would have understood, I think—in fact, I’m sure of it. I wish with all my heart that she’d stayed here, you know. I knew that it wouldn’t do her any good to go back to the Hive. That’s what really killed her, you know, in spite of what Rosalind might have told you. You did see Rosalind, I assume?”
“Briefly,” I admitted.
“And did she tell you that it was all my fault?”
“No,” I said. “She even apologized, profusely, for accidentally hinting that it might have been mine.”
“Yours?” Rowland seemed genuinely astonished. “How could it possibly have been yours? You haven’t seen her in…it must be at least ten years.”
I wondered how he knew that I hadn’t. He must, I supposed, have maintained some sort of sporadic contact with Magdalen, even if he hadn’t kept in touch with anyone else. Had that made things better or worse for her? Given that she was dead, it obviously hadn’t done her much good.
“That was probably the point that Rosalind was making, if it wasn’t really an accident,” I said, mildly. “She might have been suggesting that if I’d maintained my relationship with Magdalen, on a just friends sort of basis, Magdalen might have been a little happier…and that maybe a little would have been enough to tip the balance. As I said, she took it back immediately, acknowledging the fact that it wasn’t my failure, without seeking to lay the blame elsewhere.”
Nature's Shift Page 5