Donnerjack

by Roger Zelazny

  “You?”

  “I would gladly put myself at the service of one of the sanctified Veriteans. And if I am with you, I may be able to deduce what is causing the alterations.”

  Ambry released Lydia’s hand, rubbed his eyes.

  “Skyga’s pursuit may be the proximate cause, but you believe that there is something more—do you not?”

  Sid folded his hands prayerfully.

  “Legends say that the One Who Waits will figure in the closing or change of Virtu. You speak of rumblings among the Great Gods. I think that the waiting is ended—be it closing or change, I would play a part.”

  “Lydia?”

  “He has a good point. I can work with him.”

  “Then it is agreed. If the need comes, we will call on you.”

  “Thanks. Ill give Lydia my beeper number.”

  “And nothing of this to anyone.”

  “Nothing. I swear, unless…”

  “Yes?”

  “Would you let me confide in Paracelsus? He is the coordinating aion for the Donnerjack Institute—and my closest friend. He has a deep interest in the cult of the Sanctified Three.”

  “Does he?”

  “John D’Arcy Donnerjack is one of that number—we call him the Engineer, the counterpart to the Master, and the Guide.”

  Lydia touched Ambry’s hand. “I have a feeling we should.”

  “Ayradyss?”

  “It does seem like fate.”

  “Very well,” Ambry said. “Tell Paracelsus, but keep your counsel close or those changes may happen sooner and less fruitfully than they should.”

  “Very wise.”

  Without further leave-taking (Sid was too shaken, Ambry and Lydia too thoughtful), all departed the consulting room. Lydia left Alice a note saying that she had been called away for an undefined emergency. Then she used the virt transfer facility at one of the Hazzard family ski resorts (closed for the season) to join Ambry.

  Returning to the land behind the North Wind, Ambry perched on a high crag and played the salute he had composed for the birth of John D’Arcy Donnerjack, Junior to amuse the genius loci. When Lydia walked up the path and seated herself near enough to listen in comfort, he finished his piece and let the mouthpiece drop.

  “I wonder what happened to that child, to Ayradyss, to John?”

  “So do I. I had the strangest impression that even the Donnerjack Institute does not see them often. Sid didn’t seem to twig when I mentioned Ayradyss’s name.”

  “He is with them only part-time.”

  “True.”

  “I wonder what happened to Warren Bansa?”

  “So do I. And how much of him is you.”

  “An odd thought, that.”

  Setting aside his bagpipes, Ambry took Lydia in his arms; she rested her head on his shoulder.

  “I don’t suppose it matters.”

  The wind wailed through the clefts and declivities. It played the same tune as Ambry had on his pipes, adding verses that answered their questions without words and thus were incomprehensible.

  * * *

  When Link Crain came home from shopping and slipped into her research database, a small blue finch fluttered up with a rolled spill of white paper bound in a pink ribbon in its beak. Link took the paper, gave the finch a sunflower seed, and unrolled the paper. The note was dated earlier that day and written in her mother’s favorite evergreen ink:

  Alice,

  I’ve been catted away on business. If you need anything, contact Gwen at the clinic or your grandparents. I hope to be back within a week or so and, of course, I’ll be in touch.

  Love, Mom

  Handing the finch another seed, Link said, “There will be no reply.” It chirped and departed.

  Link frowned. It wasn’t as if Dr. Hazzard never traveled, but the suddenness was not typical. She turned to her research, to banish the uneasiness she felt. Soon she was absorbed in tracking down copyrights and cross-referencing through various manufacturers.

  That evening, she placed a call to Desmond Drum. His answering service promised to pass the message on and Link began drafting an article tentatively titled “Doing It Backwards.” She was on the second version, working in old film clips and candid photos of various virt sites where the Ginger Rogers tee-shirt was cropping up, when Drum returned her call.

  She took it on the virt and soon the detective manifested in the virtual annex Lydia Hazzard had furnished to resemble a parlor in a Victorian manor house. The ruffled skirts that tastefully concealed furniture legs were hardly a setting in which rough and craggy Drum looked at home.

  “Ah, here,” Drum said cryptically.

  He tapped the fingers of his right hand on the back of his left. When he completed the sequence, his casual slacks and button-down shirt metamorphosed into clothing appropriate for a Victorian gentleman gone calling. He remained clean-shaven, but his thick brows were tamed and his sandy hair was slightly longer. Bowing from the waist, he extracted a calling card case from his breast pocket, dropped a card onto the tray near the door, and winked at Link.

  Link realized she was gaping and snapped her mouth shut. She considered changing into one of the outfits that she had prepared for this setting, but rejected the thought at once. All of them were meant for Alice Hazzard and, although she knew that Drum had long been privy to her masquerade, she found herself oddly shy when she played girl for him.

  Instead she returned Drum’s bow and gestured him to a seat.

  “Very nice, Drum. And thanks for returning my call.”

  “My pleasure, Link. Your message sounded as if you had something interesting for me.”

  “I do. Tea? Crumpets?”

  “That would be nice.”

  Link tugged at the bell pull and a simple maid-servant proge appeared with a prepared tea tray.

  “I will pour, Maggie. That will be all.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  When the proge had exited and she had poured tea, Link had regained her composure.

  “When I was out shopping for a birthday present for my mother I came across this.” Link shook out the virt shirt. “The vendor mentioned that they were becoming a hot fad and I thought I’d earn some eft by doing a write-up.”

  “Eft is always useful. I’ve seen the shirts around, but I didn’t really think much about them. So, kid, am I right in guessing that you didn’t call me just to boast that you might have sold another article?”

  Link grinned. “Yep. The vendor mentioned that this was a copyrighted product.”

  “Good planning on the designer’s part,” Drum said. “Otherwise it’s so simple that it would get pirated in no time.”

  “I did a routine check on the copyright and found that it was held by one Randall Kelsey.”

  “Randall Kelsey… sounds familiar.”

  “Member of the Church of Elish. I checked further and the money for the copyright and production of the virt template came directly from the Church.”

  “A simple front, then.”

  “That’s what I figure.”

  Drum picked up the virt shirt, turned it so he could study the slogan and the picture. “Who was Ginger Rogers anyway?”

  “An American performer in the twentieth century. She was best known for dancing with this Fred Astaire. He became famous for his dancing—there were dance studios named for him, he had a program of his own. Rogers was always in his shadow.”

  “This slogan makes it sound like she had the harder job.”

  “That was what I thought, too. The more I look at it, the harder it is to dismiss it as some sort of pop flippancy. It almost has the ring of a rallying cry.”

  “Strange rally, if it invokes people no one but a dancing fiend would have heard about.”

  “Still, they aren’t impossible to learn about. They’re both listed in the major databanks. In fact, if you have computer access and even a minor amount of curiosity, it’s easy enough to do.”

  “So, who is it rallying? Women d
ancers?”

  “Drum, stop playing with me. Think about what we discussed earlier. The Church of Elish was apparently founded by an aion—an aion who we think is taking a more active role in affairs.”

  Drum crumpled a crumpet. “You think this is meant to appeal to aions, then.”

  “That’s right. They do everything we do but in Virtu—which many-call a mirror of Verite.”

  “And everything is backwards in a mirror.” Drum glanced around the parlor. “I wonder if we should even be having this discussion here.”

  “If the dissatisfaction is so high that every virt site is monitored, we’re doomed already.”

  “True. Still…”

  “You’re paranoid.”

  “I’m old and alive. Humor me.”

  “You’re not saying I shouldn’t file my story, are you? I already have a contract with Virtropolis.”

  “You don’t mention any of this rallying cry stuff, do you?”

  “No, just fad and fashion sense with clips about Rogers and Astaire. There’s lots of good material that’s public domain.”

  “Then file it and bank your eft. Can I buy you dinner?”

  “News?”

  “I’m just back from a trip, wanted to show you my snapshots.”

  “Sure. Can we eat in RT? I got so busy that I skipped lunch. Mom laid down the law that while I’m still growing I should eat at least one solid meal a day.”

  “Would Italian suit? I have a real craving for eggplant parmigiana. Amici’s is about midpoint between our places.”

  “Give me an hour.”

  “Very well.” Drum rose, bowed to Link. “Thank you for the tea and crumpets. I shall anticipate our meeting.”

  He strolled to the door and vanished. Link stood a moment longer. Catching his/her reflection in one of the gilded mirrors, she realized that she was blushing. Furious at Drum’s ability to make her lose her studied masculinity, she stalked to her reporter’s cubby, touched up her story, and sent it off. There was time enough to put on a clean suit and tie and her nattiest fedora before the cab arrived to take her to dinner.

  “Hey, kid,” Drum said, by way of greeting as Link came up to the table. He had a scotch and soda by one hand and was chewing a bread stick. The polished Victorian gentleman had vanished with the costume. “They have an antipasto special tonight—Italian cold cuts, marinated artichoke hearts, olives, cheeses. Sounded so good I went ahead and ordered one big enough for both of us.”

  “Great.”

  Link slid into the chair across from Drum and placed an order for a glass of the house’s rough red. She studied the menu and then tapped in a request for a clam and lobster spaghetti in a red sauce and a green salad with oil and vinegar.

  “Have a bread stick, kid.”

  Link took one, dipped it into olive oil and salt.

  “I’m going to hate it when I stop growing and need to watch my weight.”

  “You must be about done, now,” Drum said, “if your similarity to your mother is going to hold.”

  “I know. It’s a pity. Maybe I should take up some terribly vigorous sport.”

  “I play RT tennis twice a week,” Drum offered. “I’d be happy to teach you.”

  “Maybe. You know, I never thought about you doing anything except chasing people around and reading their mail. Tell me about your trip.”

  “I’ve been to California.”

  A waiter brought the antipasto, Link’s wine, and a refill on the bread sticks. While he fussed with table settings, Drum finished his whiskey and soda and cleared his palate with a pinkish grey olive.

  “Good and sharp,” he said, neatly placing the pit on the side of his plate. “Yes, I’ve been to California and to the land that our mutual acquaintances have just purchased. There’s lots of construction going on— and now that I think about it, quite a few of those tee-shirts you were telling me about.”

  “Interesting. Are they doing it up as big as in Central Park?”

  “Bigger, if anything. Some of the ziggurats looked as if they could support a fair amount of weight. I’d guess that the outlying ones are going to double as landing pads.”

  “They do plan well, don’t they? If they draw crowds like last time— and they probably will—there won’t be keeping anything at ground-level clear.”

  “Aoud Aral, I’d guess,” Drum said. “He has been rising in importance since the riot. Doesn’t show any real theological ambition—just what’s pro forma—but he has a gift for handling a crowd.”

  They talked for a while longer about what Drum had seen, about the rumors that the celebration would be open only to those who had purchased tickets, but that the tickets would be vended worldwide. Bidding was still going on between the major entertainment networks for the simulcasting rights. Whether or not the Church of Elish restored its reputation through this second celebration, it was quite clear that they were going to be minting money.

  Antipasto was a memory and they were well into their entrees when Drum changed the subject.

  “Before I forget, I have a bit more information for you on the case you gave me.”

  Link set down her fork. “Yes?”

  “I made a side-trip to Eilean a’Tempull Dubh. There’s a small fishing village there with residents as close-mouthed as any stereotype would have you believe. I got them talking, though.”

  “How?”

  “There’s a castle that dominates the island—a hulking, black stone creation with battlements, gargoyles, towers… the whole nine yards. It’s listed on the maps as Castle Donnerjack. Photos of the island taken more than about twenty years ago don’t show it, just a few picturesque rubble heaps.

  “I went into a local tavern and started going on about the obvious antiquity of the structure, acting angry when someone challenged my authority. Finally, I offered drinks to anyone who could prove to me that the castle wasn’t the ancient structure I claimed.”

  Link giggled. “I bet that got them talking.”

  “Aye, that it did, laddy,” Drum said in an affected accent. “The tavern keeper pulled out his photo album and as the whisky started flowing soon each was rivaling the other to show me how stupid I was.”

  Drum took a contented sip of his wine and a bite of his eggplant. Watching him, Link was reminded of her own forgotten meal.

  “The information I gathered was sketchy, but enough to prove our early guestimates,” Drum continued. “It seems that John D’Arcy Donnerjack had some ancestral claims to the land on which the castle now stands and confirmed them with a large outlay of eft. The local belief was that he had the castle built as a present for his bride, a dark-haired, soulful woman who was never seen by the villagers except as a figure on the castle battlements or strolling on a lonely strand near the shore.”

  “Was he keeping her prisoner?”

  “I asked something similar as tactfully as I could, given that the locals are quite attached to the ‘laird’—an odd thing in itself, given that they apparently saw him rarely.”

  “Maybe that’s why they were attached to him,” Link said dryly. “It’s easier to admire an idealized laird in a castle than a flesh and blood aristocrat.”

  “I don’t doubt that you have something there,” Drum agreed. “The general opinion of the locals was that Lady Donnerjack was recovering from some illness when she arrived. Later, she became pregnant and, being delicate, chose to stay near to home.”

  “Pregnant?” Link’s eyes shone as the trail to the elusive Jay MacDougal became more solid.

  “Yes, there’s no doubt about that bit at least. A few of the locals were employed at the castle until the robot and AP staff was running smoothly. And almost everyone over fifteen years old had tales about the wonderful events of a spring day some years ago when bagpipe music played from the hills and an unofficial holiday with food and drinks for all was declared in celebration of the birth of the laird’s son.”

  “So he exists!”

  “Or did,” Drum cautioned. “A f
ew months after that holiday, things changed at the castle. Only two of the human staff members—Angus and the Duncan—were kept on and their work was restricted to groundskeeping and external maintenance. No one saw either the lady or the laird—and no one can ever recall seeing the child.”

  “How creepy!”

  “I spoke with Angus and the Duncan. They both knew Dack—he’s their paymaster and the person who tells them what needs to be done. They seem to think he’s an affable sort, open to reasonable suggestions, given to presenting gifts and raises at appropriate times. 1 had the general impression that they both think that John D’Arcy Donnerjack uses the robot as a means of speaking to them. I don’t believe that either of them have ever spoken to the laird in person.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Just a host of fairy stories—mostly about the castle being haunted. The more the whisky flowed the more people had a tale to tell. Almost everyone claimed to have seen the gargoyles move or heard a woman wailing. The usual nonsense.”

  Link wiped up sauce with a torn hunk of bread, letting Drum finish the last few bites of his meal.

  “I don’t suppose that knocking at the castle door would do any good, would it?”

  “Probably not. I’ll see what else I can find out. Now that I have some nonconjectural evidence—however shaky—that John D’Arcy Donnerjack had a son, perhaps I can get someone at the Donnerjack Institute to pass on a message.”

  “Explain that we don’t mean him any harm—we only want to thank him for helping us during the riot.”

  “Of course.”

  Drum pushed his plate to one side and brought up the intable dessert menu.

  “A dinner like that deserves dessert.”

  “I didn’t think I had any space left, but those pastries certainly look wonderful.”

  “Shall I order a plate of the miniatures and a pot of espresso?”

  Link grinned. “Just make certain that there are enough cannoli.”

  “Sounds very good.” Drum toasted Link with the remnants of his wine. “Here’s to mysteries solved!”

  “In both Virtu and Verite,” Link responded.