While I wondered about the arts dinner, and worried about my meeting with Harlaan, I couldn't very well wire Harlaan and demand the explanation he'd already refused to give me. So I taught and fretted, and went on with life. I'd set up the new SII difference engine beside the first in my study and began to edit and transfer files.
The next Monday, I was back in Zuider, in the early evening, while Llysette was giving extra time to one of her upper level students who was preparing for a recital. Normally, Bruce and his brother Curt closed at six, except on Fridays, but Bruce had agreed to meet me. That bothered me a little as well, but Bruce had always been accommodating.
With that faint smile he gave when he had more on his mind than he wanted to reveal immediately, Bruce escorted me back to his own laboratory-workroom. He closed the door.
“I'm not that secretive, Johan, but someone else might decide I'm open if they saw us, and that creates ill feelings if I don't answer their knocking when they see me.”
I understood that. It was like refusing to talk to a student, even if you were late for class.
“Here we are.” Bruce gestured to the items sitting on the green cloth at one end of his workbench, which was piled high with equipment even I couldn't recognize.
Four of the items I recognized, because I'd brought them to Bruce the previous Thursday. One looked like a pocket calculator, and two of the others looked like ballpoint pens, except they were special projectors Bruce had made for me when we had gone to Deseret. When the pens went into the decorative slots on the sides of the device and the delete key was pressed, the calculator became a zombification device, or a ghost-removal projector. The same was true of the hair dryer, except it took two switches to turn the hair dryer into a ghosting weapon. The pens, calculator, and hair dryer functioned as they should, otherwise.
“What did you do to them?” I asked. “The calculator and the dryer look the same.”
“More powerful storage cells, a bit better projection coils,” Bruce replied. “They were in good shape, and it didn't take much to upgrade them.”
The device I didn't recognize looked like an antique fountain pen, faintly bulbous, and yet distinguished in its bulk and style. The casing was black, chased with gold swirls. “What's that?”
“The same as the calculator, except it's an emergency, single-jolt zombifier. One battery, one jolt, maybe a second weak jolt, but you don't have to fiddle with anything.”
I sighed. “What do you know that I don't?”
Bruce smiled. “Not a thing. Or not much. Someone's monitoring the LBI wiresets, and it's through the circuits at New Bruges Telewire, from what we can determine. There have been several gentlemen, and even a lady, of the type we both recognize, who have been observing us. Ergo . . . you mean a lot to someone.” He fingered his beard. “What do you know?”
“I don't. The only contact either of us has had was one wireset call from the present head of our previous agency. He practically insisted that Llysette had to go to the arts dinner . . . said she deserved it. Then he asked me to drop in for a chat.”
Bruce winced. “Do you have any ideas about what he has in mind?”
“None. No mysterious briefing materials, no wireset calls . . . nothing.”
“They have a very big problem, Johan. So big that they don't want anyone to know, or have any idea of what it is. They also can't use any existing agent, for some reason.” His smile turned crooked. “They need the best, and you were among the best.”
“Thank you. That's a distinction I'd like to put behind me.”
“So would they, but they don't have any choice. And they need both of you.”
I nodded slowly.
“I'm glad I beefed all this up.” Bruce gestured toward the gadgetry. “I'd carry the big pen with you all the time. Replace the battery once a month, whether you've used it or not. And . . . remember . . . if you have a choice, don't use these where someone is using radio or videolink equipment nearby. The harmonics in some of the frequencies will create a rather large burst of static on most equipment.”
“You didn't tell me that before.”
“I didn't think about it. You're the one who did the original designs, remember?”
“You would remind me.” Actually, the late Professor Branston-Hay had come up with the basics with his dark-side research, and I'd pirated them just before his Spazi-arranged “accident.”
“You could have been a very good designer,” Bruce said. “You see formulae and figures and your mind comes up with gadgets. I just refine them.”
“You've come up with more than a few of your own, as I recall.”
“Don't remind me.” Bruce glanced toward the door. “You'd better go. If I have any other ideas, I'll let you know.”
“And if I do, I'll be back.”
“That's what we both should be afraid of,” he returned with his off-center smile.
I just nodded. Bruce always got the last word. So I clipped the bulbous pen into my shirt pocket and eased the rest of the equipment into the small box Bruce had set out. The drive backwould be long enough, with more than enough time to worry about what he'd pointed out.
8
For nearly two weeks, setting up the new equipment tookall my free time, what with transferring my files, overt and hidden, from the older SII model to the new one. Then I ended up having to program more things than I'd ever thought because improvements in difference engines are not always as time-saving as their creators believe.
By that time, I'd thought that I might have been able to dismiss Bruce's concerns. But the events conveyed by newspaper headlines and stories, while not worsening noticeably, were not improving, either. My instincts, and paradoxically, the continuing silence from Harlaan Oakes, convinced me that I had best refresh and improve my understanding of that subject about which I was one of the few living practitioners.
I had once thought, foolishly, that I'd be done with ghosting and de-ghosting technology and projections and creation, and all the other ramifications of the Spazi research undertaken by the late and unfortunate Professor Branston-Hay. But the events in Deseret had disproved that. I might be wrong, but I decided to do a bit more research into the technical ghost-related files and material I had.
Because Llysette had several students doing recitals later in the year, she ended up going in to the university several nights each week. There wasn't much I could do to help Llysette with the recital preparation, except make sure she got fed and rested, but it did leave me more time to learn about the new machine . . . and, after that, set it up for “ghost” operations and to allow me to lookinto some additional possibilities. I still had a “ghost” profile of Carolynne, and I kept that saved and safe, but I wasn't about to project it. Who knew what might happen? Conceivably, I might even partly zombie myself or Llysette.
I also had the compressed files of the ghost of justice I'd worked on, and I could use that as a possible starting point to see about improving projection capabilities, except I would have to change that radically if I wanted to avoid the selfzombie problem. So I did, first replacing the image with that of a Norse barbarian, because I had a good illustration from something called The Dark Hammer. Then, using the actual internal structure of the real Carolynne's scan, I created all the supporting details. The idea was to replicate what I'd done in Deseret without overloading and destroying the equipment, as had happened in the Saint Tabernacle. While there might be a rough equivalency in destroying a difference engine and the field projection equipment for each ghost projection created, it wasn't the sort of equivalency a university professor could afford.
That was how I found myself sitting in my study on a Wednesday night, a weekbefore we were to leave to go to the federal district, looking at a mass of code, an improved—I thought—projection cone, and wondering if I really wanted to do what I was about to do. Finally, I fed power into the cone and entered the execution codes.
The hazy mist formed right in front of the French doors, the wh
iteness of the initially indistinct form made sharper by the darkness outside. Then, I could begin to see two figures—one the Viking-like warrior, and a softer, smaller form that was vaguely familiar.
I swallowed and flipped the difference engine's power switch—as quickly as I could.
For a moment both figures lingered, then slowly faded.
I tooka very long and deep breath, glad I was still myself.
Once again, I was in over my head. If what I'd seen happened to be what I thought I'd seen, the structural arrangement of projected data was as important as the data itself, and by using the structure of Carolynne's template, I'd almost recreated the ghost of a ghost.
So I went backto Branston-Hay's files again . . . but the material I had didn't mention anything about what I thought of as the lattice-structure effect. I tried an arrangement based on the ghost of justice structure, but with modifications, and I got a Viking warrior squeezed into a dumbbell. Another rearrangement got me a trapezoid, and I was getting the impression that I was either going to need to be very lucky or find a text on topographical mathematics, but still hadn't figured out a workable structure when I saw the headlamps and heard Llysette's Reo.
She was already easing the Reo into the car barn, but I went out and opened her door. “How did it go?”
“ Comme ci, comme ça . . . but I am tired.”
I closed the car barn doors, and we walked through a light but cold wind to the steps and into the house.
“Tres fatigué?” I tookher coat and hung it in the closet in the front foyer.
“ Oui . . . the recital, it will be good, if they progress as they are, but never do they understand until the last how much effort, it is required.”
“That's true of students everywhere, I think. I was like that once.”
“ Non . . . I thinknot.”
I wasn't about to argue that. I knew I had been, whatever she said, but trying to convince a loving spouse that I'd been an impatient idiot student was a losing proposition. So I merely asked, “Would you like some chocolate, or some wine?”
“My heart longs for the wine, and my head says the chocolate. The chocolate, I think.” A smile—half impish, half tired—followed her words.
I eased my singer into a chair at one end of the table. I hadn't been terribly successful in rejuvenating my ghost-related equipment and skills, and I couldn't help with recitals, but I could make good Dutch hot chocolate—if a bit sweet.
9
Another weekend came and went, with more late student recital rehearsals for Llysette, more quizzes and tests for me, more silence from Harlaan, and only marginal improvements in my efforts in improving my ghost-creation operations. Before either of us knew it, it was Wednesday again, and I was packing valises into the Stanley well before dawn for the drive to Lebanon to pickup the Quebec Express to New Amsterdam.
The sun was shining through a bright blue fall afternoon sky when we stepped out of the Baltimore and Potomac station on the north side of the Mall in the federal district. I was carrying my valise and the long hanging bag that held Llysette's gown and my black-and-white evening wear for the dinner. There were more cabs than normal, and we found ourselves being helped into another of the ubiquitous darkblue Piet's Cabs.
“Where to, sir?” asked the square-bearded cabbie, who wore a brown vest and a yellow cravat.
“Upper northwest. Spring Valley. Sedgwickjust off Forty-seventh and New Bruges.”
“That's a minimum of seven now, sir.”
“When did that happen?” I asked, showing a ten. The year before the minimum had only been five, and that had been a dollar increase from the year before.
“Last month, sir. The kerosene price increases, you know.”
The cabbie checked the valises in the boot, then closed the doors, and we were soon headed west on Constitution Avenue, passing the Dutch Masters wing of the National Gallery, my own bête noire, since the Congress had accepted the design despite my artistic and environmental objections when I'd been subminister. But then, the post had almost been given to me as compensation for Elspeth's and Waltar's deaths in the Nord affair, and few had expected me to take the position seriously. I'd no sooner gotten myself taken seriously than the Hartpence administration had been swept into office in the elections as a result of popular revulsion, and I'd retired to Vanderbraak Centre.
At Llysette's suggestion, we did stop at the Ghirardelli Chocolatiers off Dupont Circle to pickup a box for Judith and Eric. Embassy Row was little changed. The section of sidewalkin front of the embassy of Chung Kuo was still cordoned off, although in the bright sunlight I couldn't see the ghosts of the Vietnamese monks who had immolated themselves there nearly fifteen years earlier.
When we got out of the cab in front of Eric and Judith's, Judith was waiting on the front porch, her silver hair cut shorter than I recalled. She was wearing a blacksuit, with a red and silver scarf, as if she'd just come from the gallery, which she probably had.
I let Llysette tender the chocolates while I paid the cabbie and struggled with the luggage.
“You shouldn't have,” Judith protested, but her gray eyes sparkled. She was pleased. She followed us inside the Tudorinfluenced dwelling, into the two-story foyer and under the crystal chandelier.
“I can take these upstairs,” I said to them.
“You are certain, mon cher?” asked Llysette.
“Let him,” suggested Judith, with a laugh. “Every man needs to do something to prove he's still masculine and vigorous, and Johan's still young enough that he has to prove it.”
“For now,” I quipped back, before heading up the wide stairs to the second level. After laying out the valises, and unpacking the hanging bag so that our formal wear wouldn't get more wrinkled, I came downstairs. Llysette was sitting at the table in the nook off the kitchen, and Judith was preparing chocolate and tea.
“While I'm getting this ready, there's a story in the Columbia Post-Dispatch that you ought to read,” Judith said. “It's about the dinner. I saved it for you. It's over on the counter there.”
I skimmed over the boilerplate of the introduction, about speculation over the awards for achievement and then the quotes from all the notables about the need for support of the fine arts, before I got to the part that concerned us.
“Among the distinguished attendees will be the Russian violinist Solomon Volkov, who recently fled tzarist Russia, and Llysette duBoise, the former First Diva of Old France. Her recent performances have electrified audiences, and her Salt Palace diskthreatens to break all records for a recording of a single live classical performance. She will be accompanied by her husband, Johan Eschbach, former minister in the Vandenburg administration. An expert in environmental technology, Esch bach is von Behn Professor of Natural Resources at Vanderbraak State University. . . .”
Actually, I was officially the von Behn Professor of Applied Politics and Ecology, but I could see that whoever had written the story had wanted to emphasize my technical expertise in ecology, not my technical expertise in other areas. Afra Behn would have understood, I thought.
I passed the paper to Llysette.
She read through the article slowly, then looked up. “Johan . . . if so many of these disks I am selling, why are we not rich?” Again, there was the glint of humor in the deadpan delivery.
“Two reasons,” I replied, equally deadpan. “There are very few recordings of classical live performances. That means you can breakrecords and still not make a lot of money. And second, the contracts say that you don't get paid until six months after each accounting period. So . . . if you're rich, we won't start finding out until next April.”
Both women smiled as Judith seated herself in the chair with her backto the island.
After waiting for Llysette to lift her cup, I tooka sip of the chocolate from the heavier mug. “It's very good.” It was, as always, but I would have said so in any case. “And I'll try not to eat all the butter cookies this time.”
“You don't loo
kso nervous this time. Things are much easier this year?”
“Not totally,” I admitted. “Harlaan Oakes asked me to stop by tomorrow afternoon.”
“The new Spazi director?” asked Judith.
I nodded. “He used to be a special assistant to President Armstrong. You might say that Llysette and I got him his job.”
“You never mentioned that,” Judith said. “Then, there's always been a great deal you haven't mentioned.” She smiled at Llysette. “That is true of you as well, I have this suspicion. Both of you keep secrets well, so well that unless you want something known, it isn't.” She shrugged. “And . . . no . . . I don't know anything that might bear on Minister Oakes and you two.”
“Harlan didn't say anything at all, just that he wanted to see me.” I paused. “He was very insistent that Llysette be at the arts dinner.”
“That would make sure you were there.”
“Exactement,” murmured Llysette.
“I still thinkthere's a reason they want you there,” I told Llysette.
“ Moi . . . I thinknot, except as an adornment.”
I had my doubts, but just asked, “How is Suzanne doing?” “
She and Alex love Savannah. We went down there last month. It's far too hot for me.”
How long we had been talking, I wasn't certain, but I'd been through three cups of chocolate when the door opened and Eric stepped into the kitchen.
I stood. “We're here, looking for lodging at the best place in the federal district.”
“You're welcome, but in the wrong place for that.” He laughed. “This time, you came with fewer portents of trouble.”
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