Navin let out a guffaw. ‘I bet it woke up Shastri Bhavan.’
‘It did! In a complete volte-face, Harisharanji rang me up a little while ago. Now, it is all systems go! We have to send a task force to Gauribidnur right away … and that’s why you are here.’
The D.G. banished the smile he had picked up while narrating the incident and sat down. Navin knew that the ball was now in his court. He flicked the ashes in an ashtray and said: ‘Frankly, my first impression was that all this was a big practical joke. But on second thoughts I reasoned otherwise. What practical joker can place a three metre cube container a hundred metres underground? It’s impossible! But then, the other conclusion, that we have unearthed a relic of some ancient civilization, is also improbable. However, as scientific investigators we should not jump to conclusions. I will leave for Bangalore tomorrow.’
‘Today, not tomorrow! Go by the afternoon flight via Hyderabad. Take whomsoever you want with you. And …’
The D.G. paused, knowing that what he had to add would not go down well.
Navin guessed as much as he waited for the rest.
‘… In Hyderabad, Dr Laxmanan will join you. I will send him a telex right now and also brief him on the phone.’
‘Laxman? Why do we need Laxman in this business?’
Navin, as expected, was irritated. This was to be his show—his entirely. Why should he have to rope in an outsider?
‘I feel pretty strongly’ said the D.G., emphasizing the last word, ‘that we may sooner or later need someone who works on codes, languages … and even artificial intelligence. No one but Laxman can handle it.’ He pressed a bell to summon Shankar.
Navin moved to the window overlooking one of the tree-lined avenues for which New Delhi is so famous. He heard Shankar enter, take down the telex message and depart.
‘Where archaeology is involved, you are in charge of the whole project, naturally’, the D.G. added in conciliatory tones. ‘Dr Laxmanan will be joint project leader along with Dr Arul, who is already there. Professor Kirtikar, to whom I was talking before you came, has agreed.’
Arul was an unknown quantity in Navin’s personal equations. But Laxman was a difficult customer. Navin looked upon him as an untamed horse. It was hard to work with a man who was brilliant and at the same time totally independent in approach. Laxman always preferred to go his own way.
And what use would an AI expert and a code-breaker be in such a case? Codes can be deciphered using some knowledge of the thinking and culture of the sender. Here—if the container did indeed turn out to be genuine—they were dealing with a civilization far removed from the present one. So far as artificial intelligence was concerned, Navin knew little about it, but he could see no relevance of it to the present project. But he had to humour his D.G. Then a thought crossed Navin’s mind and put him at ease. A man of Laxman’s restless brilliance would surely be bored and quit if he found that he was not relevant to the project!
‘Sir, I foresee a few practical problems right away’, he turned to the D.G. ‘We will have to take the container out and examine it under tight security. Where can this be done?’
‘I discussed this point with Kirtikar. It seems they have just completed a building for Dr Arul’s project on the site. It was meant for labs and a computer, but it is still unoccupied. The container can be housed in a hall earmarked for one of the workshops’, the D.G. clarified.
‘And the computer? Laxman cannot work without one, you know.’
‘A VAX model has already arrived and will be installed within three weeks once the air-conditioning is straightened out. And so far as security is concerned, since South Block is interested, we will get all we need. In fact, I will get in touch with the Home Ministry immediately.’
Blast! This was not what Navin had meant. Would this bring the CBI to his doorstep? Anyway, that could not be avoided now.
They discussed further details for an hour during which the D.G. contacted Probir Ganguly, Harisharan and others. When Navin entered his office, his steno, Rajan, had a message for him.
‘Someone who did not leave a name asked you to call this number.’ Rajan did not notice the frown that crossed Navin’s face as he glanced at the number.
Although he could dial outside calls from his office phone, Navin did not do so. He left his office at lunch, leaving a message that he would fly to Bangalore in the afternoon.
But he did not go for lunch immediately, first going to a public telephone booth and dialling the number contained in the message.
‘Pyarelalji, I told you never to ring me at my office’, he began aggressively.
‘Sorry, Navinbhai!’ Pyarelal spoke in his soft voice with mock regret. ‘But the matter was urgent and you had left home.’
‘Well?’ Navin was afraid, and knew what was coming. Nobody was better informed than Pyarelal.
‘I gather that the P.M.’s office has asked your department to investigate this container at Gauribidnur.’
Navin was silent. It was never feasible denying what Pyarelal’s spies had told him. Pyarelal continued:
‘Well it is just a gentle reminder … don’t forget me when you are out there.’ The phone clicked off.
The conversation made Navin tense. Why were things becoming so complicated?
There were seven clocks in Pyarelal’s den, each showing a different time. The names Tokyo, Singapore, Bombay, Dubai, London, New York and Los Angeles identified them. It was on the fifth one that Pyarelal’s attention was focussed. It showed the time at 8 a.m.
He turned the dial of his phone to get a London number. He had greatly welcomed the introduction of international subscriber dialling, for it left no written record with any intermediary operator. With five attempts he finally got the number, and after several rings someone at the other end replied sleepily, ‘Who the hell is it?’
‘P.L.’ replied Pyarelal in subdued manner.
‘Hope you have something really important to say to justify waking me at this hour’ said ‘London’ in a quieter but still menacing tone.
Pyarelal expected this response, but was confident as he replied:
‘Not to be relayed on the phone. But look out for news from India on Breakfast TV—and take appropriate steps. Call me after ten hours.’
Pyarelal hung up. At the other end ‘London’ sat up in bed and switched on BBC1 by remote control. After an interview with a Ford executive and the latest report on the lock-out at the motor company headquarters, the programme turned to a chat with a cabinet minister—the one for trade and industry. On ITV1 a dog trainer was describing her methods of teaching various tricks to dogs. ‘London’ switched back to BBC1 at 8.30 a.m. After the Ford strike, the run on sterling and opinion polls in a marginal constituency, the newsreader finally came to what ‘London’ was awaiting:
‘In southern India, in the small town of Gauribidnur near Bangalore, archaeologists are examining an excavated container believed to be several thousand years old. No official comment has yet come.’
The news turned to football prospects. ‘London’ promptly switched off the TV set and jumped out of bed. In the next ten hours he had to get a lot done.
6 The Expert
Laxman read the telex once again and reluctantly reached out for his phone. Reluctantly, because he was afraid to face the reaction at the other end. He dialled.
‘Umi … Laxman here. Look, something has turned up.’ He came straight to the point. The expected reaction also came.
‘Whatever it is, you have to come on time … we are going out at eight sharp.’
Laxman grew more uneasy. He knew how shattered Urmila would be by his upsetting the programme—their first wedding anniversary. But he could do little to calm her and decided to get it over with.
‘Umi … you have to forgive me, but that is off. I have to go to Bangalore by the evening flight.’
‘Oh no!’ he could almost sense the imminent breakdown. He spoke rapidly. ‘You read this morning about the container found at Gauribidnur,
didn’t you? Well I have to rush over there to investigate.’
‘But what have you got to do with it? You are no archaeologist.’ Urmila’s tone was a mixture of anger and despair. Laxman persisted. ‘No, this case is very unusual. They may need my skills to decipher the contents of this box … Look, Umi, shall we leave it open tonight? … I will settle it with interest when you join me there.’
‘Join you? So it is going to be a long drawn out affair! And what am I to do in that god-forsaken place all by myself, while you are busy with that wretched container?’ Sniffles at the other end warned Laxman to be ready for the explosion. He produced what could be a trump card: ‘Listen, Umi, I am on my way home now. On the way I will pick up that sari you set your eyes on—OK?’
Urmila’s response was distinctly modified. She had wanted that expensive silk sari but had not expected it even on her wedding anniversary.
‘Trying to bribe me, aren’t you? Well, we will discuss everything then. So you will come for lunch—that will be a change! Come soon.’
As she hung up, Laxman knew that he was forgiven. He began to put the finishing touches to his work before leaving his office. That Dr Gupta, the Director General of Archaeology, should have asked him to join the task force reflected on his keen perception of Laxman’s ability. A PhD from MIT in computer software development, Laxman had had a bright post-doctoral career at Caltech. His research papers had made him internationally known and he could very well have joined one of the multinationals. But he always felt that his roots were in India and he had come back to take up a post specially created for him by Hind Electronics at Hyderabad. He was allowed full freedom to do his research and to go anywhere at any time if it suited him, and his contributions to R and D had amply vindicated this unusually liberal policy. Even his rivals in the field acknowledged his superiority.
But Dr Gupta’s request to go post-haste to Gaurbibidnur convinced Laxman that there was more behind the short news item he had read in the morning. If this box turned out to contain technologically advanced relics of the past, one might have to modify the accepted history of human progress. He had read and dismissed as speculative a highly readable paperback which purported to show that an extremely sophisticated prehistoric civilization had once existed on Earth. If this container was genuine, it might contain evidence that could not be ignored. Laxman eagerly looked forward to his new assignment.
The telex informed him that his ticket could be collected from the ariline’s office at the airport. So he had about forty-five minutes to pick up the sari on his way home to lunch. He closed his briefcase and made his way to his old and decrepit car in the car park.
7 The Agent
The British Airways jumbo from London landed at Sahar at 3.20 a.m., precisely at its scheduled time of arrival. Most of the passengers were bound for the Far East and Australia. Of the few who got off at Bombay, a hefty white man seemed to know the airport well enough to make his way quickly out of the hold-ups at immigration and customs. Even so, by the time Karl Shulz came out of the arrivals hall it was nearing quarter to five. Making his way through the melee of passengers from the Gulf states and their enormous cases, Shulz walked along the long pavement by the terminal building. He had only a small hold-all; he never believed in travelling with checked-in baggage. The crowd thinned appreciably as he walked a hundred metres, avoiding or turning away unauthorized taxi drivers and hotel touts. His brisk walk turned to a saunter and finally he came to a standstill almost at the end of the pavement. He was whistling the signature tune of ‘Dallas’.
‘I heard there is a new actress playing Miss Ellie now … I am Mahesh Doshi. Call me Mahesh.’
The speaker was an Indian of average height and build, looking almost diminutive beside Shulz. Shulz stopped whistling, handed his hold-all to Doshi and followed him to a red Maruti standing in the car park.
‘Call me Karl’, he said barely managing to squeeze into the front seat.
‘Karl, it is now nearing five. Your flight for Bangalore leaves at seven. Shall we have a drink at the Centaur?’ Mahesh glanced at his watch as the little red car sped along the road to Santa Cruz.
‘Let’s go to the coffee shop.’
The coffee shop, open for twenty-four hours, was nearly empty … apart from two sleepy Russians and an Indian family; the latter were obviously from the USA, judging from the complaints of the two children speaking in American accents.
‘I told you not to go by Air India … it is always late!’ The mother had evidently not forgotten her native Marathi. ‘Come on Neela, you exaggerate. We had no better experience with Pan Am last time. And our travel agent offered the best deal on Air India … Remember we saved four hundred dollars, more than five thousand rupees.’ The husband justified their choice of airlines.
Mahesh smiled … it was characteristic of NRIs to convert to rupees, even after several years abroad. The children, however, were rooted in America.
‘Maa…mmy, I want coke! I don’t like this substitute’, the older one complained.
‘When canna have Kentucky Fried Chicken, Mommy?’ the younger one, a five-year-old, asked. He had already decided that he had had enough of the Indian delicacies showered on him by grandparents, aunts, and uncles.
‘Generation gap!’ muttered Shulz and then turned to Doshi: ‘I bet you are waiting for your green card.’
Mahesh smiled with some embarrassment. Shulz had guessed correctly. He was waiting to follow his two brothers and sister to the land of hope and glory.
‘Coffee for me; black, without sugar’, Shulz ordered. Mahesh asked for a cold drink. They had selected a secluded corner.
‘My names may change, but my taste for black coffee remains the same’, Shulz smiled as he recalled the many aliases he had used.
‘To come to business, Karl: we have fixed you up in the Royal Manor, as you wanted’, Mahesh began. ‘You can rest in the afternoon to sleep off the jet lag. But do you really want to pay a visit to Gauribidnur tonight?’
‘Of course, I must. What’s new there that I must know?’
Mahesh was dreading this question. He hesitated before replying.
‘Nothing to report, I’m afraid. We just can’t penetrate the tight security. Now they have got the C.S.F. patrolling the site, inside and out.’
‘C.S.F.?’
‘The Central Security Force! And besides, there is strict censorship on all news from the Science Centre. Even the labourers who found the box have been replaced … they have been taken to god knows where!’
‘And Raghavan?’
‘He is still there, very much in charge. But totally beyond reach … But if I may hazard a guess, they will soon open the container.’
‘I want facts, not guesses.’ There was only a passing shade of displeasure across Shulz’s face, but it would have been enough to give some indication of the real person that lay beneath that suave exterior. Mahesh missed it as he sipped his cola.
‘My guess is based on facts … supplied by Navin a couple of days back.’ Mahesh felt himself on firmer ground here. Navin was the chink in this armour around the container, their only hope.
‘Aach! Navin, of course! Haven’t seen him since we flew together from Bombay to Delhi. Must renew our friendship’, Shulz muttered softly. ‘Mahesh, please arrange for me to meet Navin tonight.’
Although prefaced by ‘please’, Mahesh realized that it was an order. He felt out of his depth.
‘I will do my best’, he said uncomfortably.
‘That’s not good enough, my friend! You have to ensure that it comes about … come let’s go.’
As Shulz’s heavy hand fell on his back, Mahesh shuddered. It would not do to make this man angry, he realized. He gulped down the drink and got up.
Karl Shulz reached Bangalore on time. Making his way through the mob at the exit of the arrivals lounge, he found what he was looking for—a man holding up a small board with his name on it. He followed the man to a black Ambassador in the car park. Its black n
umber on a white plate told him that it was hired from one of the private taxi firms in the city.
‘Royal Manor, please’, said Shulz, although he knew that the man had been properly briefed beforehand.
‘Yes, Saar! Pyarelal Saab wait you, hotel … lunch.’ The driver managed to convey the information across the language barrier.
Skirting the golf course the car made its way to the imposing pseudo-British building. A spacious suite was reserved for Shulz. He lost no time in refreshing himself with a long, cold shower. When he came out of the bathroom, he put on a kurta-pyjama made to measure. The outline of his well-built body was noticeable through the semi-transparent Lucknavi kurta.
The bedside phone rang.
‘Shulz’, he acknowledged, speaking into the receiver.
‘Welcome, Karl!’ Pyarelal here. Hope you got my message for lunch. Is it OK?’
‘Where?’ Shulz did not believe in talking too much on the phone.
Pyarelal named a leading Bangalore restaurant. ‘Be near the reception. A car will come to pick you up.’
‘When?’
‘Twelve noon … OK? … Bye!’
There were no outward signs of fatigue on Shulz’s face as he sat opposite Pyarelal, devouring Tandoori chicken. It was characteristic of the man that he could will himself to be in good physical condition whenever the occasion demanded. His working phases of iron self-discipline alternated with those of relaxation when he let himself go, which is why he declined alcohol, and came straight to the point.
‘I am upset by what Mahesh told me.’
‘What did he tell you?’
‘That you are unable to penetrate the veil of security around the container.’
Pyarelal’s face had an enigmatic smile. ‘Karl, in these matters it won’t do to rush things … I have hopes in Navin.’
‘Hopes! What can Navin do?’
‘Navin is silent because he is awaiting developments. Believe me, he will find a way of communicating once he has something to report.’
‘Or is he having pangs of conscience?’
The Return of Vaman - A Scientific Novel Page 5