by Gene Wolfe
“In that case it was probably someone he consulted. Someone he confided in to some extent.”
“Don’t you think…?” She cupped a hand behind her ear.
“Yes, I do. Not always rightly, but I think. I can’t help it. Come with me.”
I left the overfurnished room that had been her father’s office, went to the lift tube, and held the door open until she came.
The lift tube let us out in the long bright sunroom that ran along the south side of what appeared to be the oldest part of the house. Earlier, we had come into the house from the kitchen. Now we left through French doors. Without the least idea of where I was going, I walked off over the lawn.
“You’re trying to get away from the listening devices, aren’t you?”
“Certainly. But a little fresh air may do both of us good. It clears the head.”
“You did a whole lot of talking up there.”
“I did, with a purpose. Your father’s secret is hidden somewhere in that book. Do we agree on that?”
“Absolutely!”
Colette was hurrying to keep up, and I slowed my pace accordingly. “Suppose we find it. Suppose we open those two doors or break them down. Suppose we learn exactly how your father gained his sudden wealth. What good will it do you if the people you fear have planted all these listening devices—the people who strip-searched us in your apartment—are still at large? I want to get them out into the open. If I’m guessing right about them, they won’t dare kill us until they have the secret. But once we learn it, their learning it will be a snap. Capture either or both of us. Use drugs, torture, or brain scans. Any of the three ought to work quite well.”
“And I’m just a woman.” Colette’s smile was a trifle bitter.
“They could wait until I’m back in the library and check me out.” I pointed. “There’s a gate in that wall. Where does it go?”
“To the garden. Would you like to see it?”
“Not particularly, but we’re approaching a fence. Perhaps we’d better go in.”
We did. There were trees and shrubs that probably bloomed in spring but now (at the dry height of summer) looked half dead. The flower beds were choked with weeds and the grass uncut. We sat in the shade on a granite bench in front of a marble fountain that no longer played.
“I’m going to fix this,” Colette declared. “I have all this money. I’ll hire our old gardener back and tell him to find a couple of assistants.”
“Good. May I ask who cuts the lawns? Do you have a service?”
“No, the ’bots do it. They’re based in the barn. They’ll water and weed this if I tell them to, but they’re not real gardeners. No planting or planning or anything like that. Do you want to talk to them?”
I shook my head. “The police will have questioned them. I know there’s a ’bot in the house. What about human maids?”
“Not until Mother died. She couldn’t stand them and Father didn’t want them. People who’ve never had servants think you can just pay them and leave everything up to them, but in the real world they take a lot of supervision. Humans steal, gossip, drink, and snort dope. ’Bots are sick half the time. Besides, they do crazy things and think they’re just fine. Have you ever argued with one?”
I smiled. “Once or twice.”
“Then you know how it is. If it’s what they were programmed to do, they think it’s perfectly fine no matter what the situation is. A friend of mine who survived a crash told me the steward kept passing out refreshments when their flitter had lost power and was headed for the mountains. I believe her! They can be exactly like that.”
I said, “Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are when you’re angry?”
“Yes!” Colette raised her fist. “Usually it’s just before I hit them.”
“Seriously now, ’bots are capable of a great deal of intelligence, and they make devoted workers. They’re so complex that they’re frequently in the shop; I’ll grant you that.”
“Nice of you. But the more intelligent they are, the more they cost. That’s up-front cost, and my father said you can often spend as much up front as you’d pay a human employee over ten years. When your human gets sick, the government pays. When your ’bot gets sick, you pay. There was a cleaning company that came in once a week; I don’t know the name. Now don’t tell me that this argument was what you didn’t want those people who tied us to chairs to overhear.”
She had me. I shook my head.
“All right, what was it?”
“Simply this. You’re afraid our enemies will visit us again. Understandably so.”
Colette nodded.
“I’m afraid they won’t. We need to make them show their hand. That’s why I gave you K. Justin Roglich’s name aloud and even spelled it. We might like to kill them, but that isn’t really necessary. Even if all we can do is draw their fangs, that will be enough. But the worst thing we can do, the thing that would increase our danger tenfold, would be to discover the secret while they’re still intact, listening, and waiting to pounce.”
“I see what you mean. You may be right.”
“You think I may be right. I devoutly believe I am. Can you show me why I may be wrong?”
Colette nodded. “I think so. The money. My father was a minor executive without a job. He became a wealthy investor very quickly. I told you how his little newsletter, just one page of advice a week, was an overnight success. Not literally, but in just ten or twelve weeks. A lot of that was his personal reputation. When I tell people who my father is—was, I mean—some of them are awed.”
“You would have a great deal of money with which to defend yourself, in other words.”
“Right!”
“From what you’ve told me, you have at least two million now, and probably more than that.”
Slowly, Colette nodded again.
“Rent a combat ’bot and hire four human bodyguards. The ’bot will be there all day and all night, every day. With four humans, you can have at least one on duty at all times—Saturdays, Sundays, and holidays. Day and night, twice around the clock.”
Colette sighed. “And if the people who killed Cob were able to corrupt them, they would be right on the spot, overhearing anything I said to you and anything you said to me. Ready to turn on us whenever Cob’s killers gave the signal.”
“Why wouldn’t that be so if you had ten times as much money as you have now?”
“Don’t bully me!”
“I don’t intend to bully you, I’m trying to save your life and my own.”
“You think the two who tied us up are all there are! Those two men!”
I shook my head.
“That’s it! Or at least, that’s a part of it. We don’t even know how many there are.”
“You’re right, we don’t; and because we don’t, we’re prone to think their numbers are infinite. Once I read a quote from a wise old general that has stuck with me. He said there’s always a temptation to believe your enemy commands an infinite army with infinite munitions, but it’s never true. As far as we know for certain, we face only two individuals. There may be more, possibly five or even six; but have you any idea how difficult it is to keep a conspiracy secret? It’s terribly hard, and each additional conspirator increases the risk.”
“There could also be a dozen,” Colette said, “and there’s one number I’m absolutely certain of. There are only two of us.”
“You’re wrong,” I told her. “The law is on our side. We’re committing no…”
I shut up because Colette had clearly thought of something; or if I finished the thought, she didn’t hear it. To tell the truth, I did not either.
I rose, stretched, and walked a dozen steps down one of the little paths that wandered away from the fountain. When I had returned and resumed my seat, I asked why she looked so happy.
“Because you’re right. I was smiling because I’ve lost the argument. Want to hear the whole thing?”
“Yes,” I said. “Very much.�
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“All right. You were unconscious when they undressed you and searched your clothes. They searched you, too, felt around in, well, in your mouth and all that. Then the young one told the mean one that he was going to tie you to that chair. He did while the mean one watched, talking all the time about how they were going to torture us. Pull out fingernails. Burn our feet. There was a lot of that.”
I said, “I’m glad I missed it.”
“I wish I had. Then the mean one started pulling my clothes off. I yelled and hit him.” She paused. “I know I can’t use my fists like a man, but I can hurt you even so, and I hurt him. He knocked me down.”
“I’m sorry. Terribly sorry!”
“He started to kick me, but the other man, the young one, grabbed him and pulled him away. He helped me up and told me to take off my clothes. He told me I wouldn’t get hit again if I did it. Then he searched me and made me sit in that chair, and tied me up. The mean one was afraid the rags weren’t tight enough, but he tested them and they were.”
“This is interesting.” I was thinking hard. “The young one—that’s the taller of the two, correct?”
“Yes, and I think he’s not as bad as the other one, and he might even come over to our side if there was enough money in it. Or if we got them arrested like you want—I know that was what you were getting at—he might testify against the others.”
I nodded. “I wish we had some way of contacting him.”
“So do I. So we’re back to what you want, getting them to come out of the woodwork again. If you’re right and there are only a few of them, he may be one we’ll see. Are we going to visit this Dr. Roglich?”
I nodded again. “Just as soon as we can arrange a meeting with him.”
6
BACK ON THE SHELF
“I’m Colette Coldbrook.” Smiling, Colette held out her hand, which Dr. Roglich shook even more carefully than I would have. I was looking around his office, which was a trifle larger than I had expected and saturated with the mixed smells of pipe smoke and money.
“An honor, Ms. Coldbrook. A great honor and a real pleasure.” He had a high, tremulous voice. His two-hour lectures must have been a blast. “Please be seated, both of you.”
“This is my friend, E. A. Smithe.” Colette was still standing. She smiled. “Perhaps I should say my dear friend and advisor. Mr. Smithe is a veritable fountain of information.”
Dr. Roglich and I shook hands; his was a damp hand, though bigger and more muscular than I expected. I sat, waiting to wipe my own on my trouser leg.
“I can explain my situation,” Colette continued, “but you probably don’t want to hear all that. Let me just say it’s difficult and complicated.”
“Please do sit down.” Dr. Roglich seemed to be talking to the bookcase in the corner.
“Of course.” Colette took the big leather chair with arms, I having left that one for her. “I suppose you’re afraid I’m about to burst into tears. I won’t, I promise.”
Dr. Roglich sat, too, looking relieved. “First, let me offer my condolences on the death of your father.” He glanced at the bookcase. “A great loss, I realize, and not only to you.”
I said, “Colette finds herself alone in the world, I’m afraid.”
“I do.” The smile had vanished. “My mother passed away a few years ago, and my father only a little over six weeks ago. Here I’m tempted to dance around the truth, Dr. Roglich, but I must not. I won’t! You knew my father, I know. Did you know my brother Cob, too? Conrad Coldbrook, Junior?”
Dr. Roglich had gotten out a handsome briar; he began to fill it, then laid it down. “I did not have that honor, I’m afraid. From the way you speak of him—from your tone…” He looked toward the bookcase. Only its lower shelves were protected by notint. “I take it that … I hope I’m wrong.…”
Colette blotted her eyes.
I nodded to Dr. Roglich. “He’s dead.”
“That’s what I meant by dancing around the subject.” Colette sighed. “My brother was murdered, Dr. Roglich. You could easily uncover that fact, and—and others. A thorough search might tell you that he’d been away from home for a day or two. It’s possible that it might not also tell you that he had gone to visit me in Spice Grove, but he had. His killer—”
“Or killers,” I added. “We have reason to believe that there may have been more than one.”
“His killers or killer had broken into our childhood home and were waiting for him to come back. Or at least that’s how it seems. He did, and someone strangled him as soon as he walked in. A ’bot discovered his body in the front hallway. I’ve questioned it, but—”
“It never saw his murderer?” Dr. Roglich was trying to sound sympathetic.
Colette shook her head. “His suitcase was nearby. Next to his body, I mean. It had been opened and searched. His body had been searched, too—that’s what the police say. I realize you don’t want to hear all this.”
“I want to hear anything and everything you want to tell me,” Dr. Roglich said.
“Thank you.” Colette took a deep breath. “Please don’t think we’re meddlers, needlessly prying into your affairs, Doctor. That’s not it at all. But you’re an astrophysicist and my father consulted you. Will you tell us about it?”
I said, “First, we’d like to know how he got in touch with you, and why. After that, well, he was a financier. What was it he wanted to know, and what was it you told him?”
Dr. Roglich nodded absently. He was fumbling some mutated herb or other from the potbellied humidor on his desk into the bowl of his pipe. “Are you investigating his son’s death, Mr. Smithe?”
“No, that’s a job for the police. Perhaps they’ll be in touch with you, although it seems to me there’s no reason why they should.” I cleared my throat. “As Colette will confirm, her father’s business interests are being looked after by his executor. He is an attorney and presumably he can be relied upon to handle routine. However, there’s a great deal that neither he nor we understand. When Colette reaches thirty, everything will be turned over to her—stocks and bonds, a money market account, and various real estate holdings. Some of the things her father did, and some of the records that have turned up, seem inexplicable. I doubt that she and I will ever get to the bottom of everything. But total ignorance? That would invite disaster.”
There was a second or two of silence before Colette said, “My late father was a financial genius, Dr. Roglich. I most certainly am nothing of the kind, but I’m not willing to admit that I’m incapable of comprehending what he did or why he did it.”
Dr. Roglich nodded. “I understand. Furthermore, I agree. I can tell you what he wanted to know, but I have no idea why he wanted to know it. He was interested in the fundamental nature of space. Our physical universe exists in space. In that respect, it differs from all the others. Take the mathematical universe, for example. The ancient Greeks discovered that there was an invariable relationship between the diameter of a circle and its circumference. Please note that I did not say they invented it, I said that they discovered it. Was it their thinking about the possibility of such a relationship that brought the actual relationship into existence?”
Colette shook her head.
“What do you think, Mr. Smithe?”
“No. Certainly not.”
Dr. Roglich smiled. It was a faint smile and looked to me like a painful one, but it was a smile just the same. “I ask you both, why not?”
Colette said, “Because thinking about things doesn’t make them happen, or make them true either. A teacher told me once that chewing up autoraser would make my eyes fall out.”
“If we admit that principle, the fixed relationship between circumference and diameter must have existed long before any human being thought of it. Before there were humans, and indeed before there was life. Where was it, Ms. Coldbrook?”
“I have no idea,” Colette said.
“Then let us give that place a name. We’ll call it the Mathematic
al Universe. I’m sure you’re familiar with the Big Bang. Everyone learns about it before puberty. Matter and energy—lots and lots of both—appearing like rabbits from a magician’s hat. We astrophysicists suppose, some of us, that it is a property of mere vacuity to call matter and energy into being.” He opened what must have been a lighter of a design I’d never seen before and tried to light his pipe with it, then fumbled it and dropped it on his desk.
Colette’s eyebrows were up. “Is this what you told my father, Dr. Roglich? Is this what he came to you to talk about?”
“In our first chat, yes, it was.” His small cough sounded embarrassed. “Your father was deeply interested in the fundamental nature of space. He grasped the problem intuitively, if I may phrase it thus. The quality we call intelligence today is merely verbal felicity. Your father was a major intellect, if I may put it so, in way that our psychologists do not even understand exists.”
Colette said, “Thank you.”
Tried again, the gold lighter flamed and went out. “He explained—perhaps I should not say this, but it is at least true—that he could not pay my consulting fee but that he was eager to discuss the essential nature of space. He promised to pay me later, if he could—as in fact he did.”
Colette said, “I’ll be happy to pay any reasonable fee. I feel sure I told you that when I screened. Would you like me to pay now?”
“No. No, that won’t be necessary. Please don’t feel that I’m going to bill you so much an hour.” Dr. Roglich glanced at his watch. “I have until five. Until then I’m at your service.”
Colette thanked him.
“Does the universe have boundaries, Ms. Coldbrook? Could a space probe leave our galaxy and travel outward and travel in a straight line indefinitely? Or would it reach some boundary it could not pass? Would it perhaps enter hyperspace? If it did, what properties would we expect it to encounter there?”
I told Colette to take whichever she liked; I’d take the rest.
“I seems to me,” she said thoughtfully, “that it can’t go on forever. Nothing really does.” She looked to me for confirmation.
Dr. Roglich said, “No doubt my example seems overly fantastic. Keep in mind, please, that light moves in a straight line unless it is curved by a strong gravitational field. Our theoretical spaceship is in sober fact a photon.”