"Elphington Grammar," Lanna supplied. "We live on the North Shore, you see."
"They've expelled him," Stuart said flatly. "Don't want him there. Too much like hard work, designing special programs for a genius."
"So we've enrolled him in Jamboree Gardens. They believe in small classes, and they nurture potential on an individual basis."
"It's one of those tree-hugger schools," Stuart concluded, without much enthusiasm.
Again Thaddeus nodded. In the brief silence that followed, the
click-clack
of a hardworking computer keyboard filled the room. Cadel sat perched on Dr. Roth's chair, his small feet dangling, his gaze fixed.
"Can you tell me anything else about your son that might be useful?" Thaddeus said at last, and Lanna leaned forward.
"We're not his birth parents," she revealed in a low voice. "If that matters. He knows, of course."
"This wouldn't have happened if his nanny hadn't left." Stuart sighed. "No supervision."
"Why did his nanny leave?" Dr. Roth queried, whereupon Stuart rubbed the back of his neck in obvious discomfort.
This time Lanna's voice was so low that it was barely a whisper.
"He used to charge things to her credit card. She used it so much that
of course
he picked up on it."
"He's a funny kid," Stuart admitted. "He's not normal."
"Stuart!"
"Well, he's not. You can't pretend he is."
"Shhh!"
But Cadel didn't seem to be listening. He was peering at the computer screen, his lips pursed, his brow furrowed.
"You know what he said to me the other day?" Stuart continued. "Lanna and I had been arguing—"
"We don't often argue," his wife broke in, smiling nervously at Thaddeus. "You're giving Dr. Roth the wrong idea, honey."
Stuart snorted. "Yeah, well, whatever you say. Anyhow, he looked me straight in the eye, and he said, 'You're like a malfunctioning modem with her. You need to locate the right initialization string.'" Stuart blinked. "Can you believe that?"
His wife tittered. "Oh dear," she said. "That is
so
Cadel."
"He carries the strangest things around with him," Stuart went on. "Not yo-yos or rubber frogs or stuff like that. He carries circuit boards and thermostats and ignition coils. God knows where he gets them."
"Out of my computer." Lanna grimaced, her face falling suddenly. "That's where he gets them. Or he dismantles the security system."
"We have a circuitry room," Stuart confessed. "It controls the security system and the phone system and the air-conditioning—"
"We can never get him out of there."
"Half the time, when you turn on the television, the garage door opens."
"Whatever kind of lock you put on that damned circuitry room, he always cracks it sooner or later."
"Like you said, Lanna, he can't resist a challenge."
All three adults turned their heads to study Cadel, who ignored them. He looked just like a little angel, with his huge blue eyes, chestnut curls, and heart-shaped face.
"We were wondering if he was a bit autistic"—Lanna sighed—"but he's not. We checked it out. He's just not very interested in people."
"Especially other kids," said Stuart. "Well, what other kids anywhere near his age are going to be interested in information protocol settings?"
"Quite," said Thaddeus. "And what do you hope to
gain
from having Cadel visit me here, Mr. and Mrs. Piggott?"
"Well..." Lanna cast a hopeless glance at her husband, who shrugged.
"We're just doing what we're told," he mumbled. "So this whole business won't happen again."
"Perhaps you can teach Cadel some social skills?" Lanna proposed brightly. "Help him to understand that he can't do whatever he wants just because he's smarter than everyone else?"
"Because he
thinks
he's smarter than everyone else," Stuart amended. And he narrowed his eyes, his jaw muscles working.
Thaddeus surveyed him thoughtfully.
"Ye-e-es," said Thaddeus. "I see." All at once he surged to his feet, taking Mr. and Mrs. Piggott by surprise. "Well, thank you very much for that input," he remarked pleasantly. "You've been most helpful. I'll keep it in mind when I talk to your son—it might be interesting to have some more tests done, but I'll discuss that with you later. Could you give me, say, twenty minutes? Twenty minutes alone with Cadel? It should be enough for today."
"You mean
now?
" said Stuart.
"If that's all right with you."
"Well, I ... I guess so."
"If it's all right with Cadel," said Lanna. "Cadel? Honey? Do you mind if we step outside for a few minutes? Dr. Roth wants to talk to you."
There was no reply. Cadel didn't appear to have registered the fact that Lanna was addressing him.
"He won't even notice we're gone," her husband muttered. "You watch."
"We'll be right downstairs, honey. We won't be far."
"You'd think he was deaf," Stuart complained. As he nudged his wife from the room, she threw Dr. Roth a toothy smile.
"He's not deaf, actually," she assured the psychologist. "We've had tests done..."
Bang!
The door slammed shut. Thaddeus waited until he could no longer hear the tramp of feet on stairs before strolling over to where Cadel sat in the typist's chair. Cadel ignored him. Suddenly, Thaddeus yanked at the chair, making it spin around until it was pointing toward him. Then he grabbed each armrest and leaned into Cadel's face.
Cadel's hands jumped up in a startled reflex.
"I'll make a deal with you, Cadel," said Thaddeus. "Can you keep a secret?"
Solemnly, Cadel nodded.
"Good. Then this is what we'll do. If you don't tell your parents about it, I'll let you use my computer whenever you come here. Does that sound good?"
Again, Cadel nodded.
"And all I ask in return is this." The corner of Thaddeus's mouth rose, revealing one yellowish, pointed canine tooth. Through the lenses of his spectacles, his eyes were as black as a snake's. His voice dropped to a throaty whisper. "Next time," he murmured, "whatever you do,
don't get caught.
"
Cadel Piggott had a very special sort of mind. He could picture systems of all kinds in three dimensions, with perfect accuracy. He loved systems: phone systems, electrical systems, car engines, complicated traffic intersections. When he first saw a map of the Sydney rail system, pasted on the wall of a suburban train, he was enchanted.
At Jamboree Gardens, the teachers understood the scope of his intelligence. They moved him up to fourth grade but would not accelerate his learning program any further. They told Mrs. Piggott that although Cadel's intellect was highly developed, his social skills were no better (and in some respects were poorer) than those of any other child his age. They did not believe that he would be comfortable socializing with children older than nine.
"We've developed a series of additional math and literacy units that our teacher's assistant will take Cadel through," one of the teachers told Lanna. "We think they'll help to keep him happy and interested, along with our art and music programs. You know we place great emphasis on creativity in this school."
But Cadel was neither happy nor interested. He was impatient with silk-screen printing and books about riding bikes to the park. His obsession was with systems, and he tended to ignore everything else. So he sometimes scored badly on reading-and-comprehension tests, though at other times the teachers at Jamboree Gardens would find him poring over books like
From Eniac to Univac: An Appraisal of the Eckert-Mauchly Machines.
It was very hard to keep him off the school computers.
"He'd spend all day on them, if we let him," the principal told Lanna. "And when we don't, he becomes quite uncooperative. To be frank, we don't like him messing around with them, because half the time no one here can understand what he's doing. We can't supervise him responsibly if we don't know what we're supervising. It's very difficult."
"I know," said Lanna in gloomy tones.
"I really think he should be encouraged to focus his energies away from computer science," the principal continued. "A fully rounded person must diversify, or his intellect becomes narrow and blinkered. I think we'll have to institute a very strict timetable for Cadel. Make him understand that there's more to this world than computers."
She was successful, to some degree. Forbidden computers both at home
and
at school, Cadel turned his attention to the Sydney Rail network. He obtained every timetable for the entire system. He rode every line, over and over again, though not unaccompanied: a part-time nanny usually came with him, because the Piggotts often employed nannies, none of whom stayed for very long.
Occasionally during his sessions with Thaddeus, Cadel would even abandon the psychologist's computer and acquaint Thaddeus with his latest discoveries about gauges and signal boxes. When that happened, Thaddeus would put aside his newspaper and listen intently.
One day he said: "Do you think you understand the system now?"
Cadel pondered this question for at least half a minute.
"Yes," he replied at last.
"Because there's only one way to find out if you do," Thaddeus went on. "You can only tell whether you've mastered a system if you isolate and identify its weakest point. If you knock that out and the whole system collapses, then you know you've got a handle on it."
Cadel absorbed this advice silently. Across the room, Thaddeus watched his pale little face grow perfectly still.
Satisfied, Thaddeus once again picked up his newspaper.
For the next five months, Cadel worked and waited. Every spare moment was spent riding the rails, and at last, one afternoon in May, he spied a particular signal light being repaired. He got out at the next stop, and while his nanny was buying mints at a newsstand, he phoned Sydney Rail with the news that there was a bomb planted in a certain subterranean station. Then he went home to watch TV, which was full of stories about terrible rail delays affecting the entire Sydney network. Though no one had been hurt, on some lines commuters had been forced to wait for up to five hours.
The next day, Thaddeus asked Cadel if the train chaos had had anything to do with him.
"No," said Cadel.
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure." Cadel had a very small mouth and innocent eyes. Although he was now eight years old, he hadn't grown much. Thaddeus looked at him thoughtfully for a while before nodding.
"You should never admit to anything," he said. "Denial is the second rule after 'Don't get caught.' You must always remember that, Cadel."
Cadel didn't even nod. He was being cautious.
"One way of making sure you don't get caught is by leaving the scene of the crime," Thaddeus continued. "If you keep concentrating on the railways, somebody's going to make a connection one day. You realize that, don't you? You're going to have to get interested in something else."
Cadel blinked.
"After all, you've proved your mastery," Thaddeus pointed out. "What else can Sydney Rail possibly give you? Nothing. You should move on to another challenge. The road system, perhaps."
Cadel's eyes narrowed. Previously, he had accepted Thaddeus as being simply part of his life. Now, for the first time, he questioned the psychologist's motives. What exactly was he up to?
"Do you tell Stuart and Lanna about anything we say in here?" Cadel asked.
"Of course not." Thaddeus spoke dismissively. "Why should I?"
In response, Cadel gazed at him until Thaddeus uttered a short laugh.
"Of course, you're free to doubt me on that," Thaddeus conceded. "I wouldn't trust me, either, if I were you." Whereupon he resumed his reading, leaving Cadel to turn things over in his head.
The following week, after much thought, Cadel asked Thaddeus another question. "Are you really a psychiatrist?" he wanted to know.
"A psychologist," Thaddeus replied jovially. "Yes, I really am. Haven't you seen all my degrees? I specialize in 'troubled youth.'"
"Then why are you letting me use your computer when I'm not meant to?"
"Because I think it's good for you."
"Better than talking?"
At this, Thaddeus cast aside his newspaper. He was sitting on the crimson couch, his long legs stretched out in front of him. Folding his hands across his stomach, he fixed Cadel with a bright and curious look.
"Why? What do you want to talk about?" he inquired softly.
"I dunno." Cadel had watched enough television to understand that certain things were to be expected in a psychologist's office. "Shouldn't I talk about my parents?"
"Who aren't really your parents."
"No," Cadel agreed.
"Does that bother you?"
"No."
"Why not? Because you despise them?"
Cadel lowered his chin a fraction, as he always did when he was feeling defensive. He looked warily at Thaddeus from beneath his fringe of curls.
"I don't despise my parents," he said flatly.
Thaddeus smiled. With a cracking of joints, he rose to his full height, which was considerably more than Cadel's.
"Don't bother lying to me, Cadel."
"I'm not."
"Do you think I don't know contempt when I see it? I'm very, very familiar with contempt, believe me." Turning suddenly, Thaddeus crossed the room to the French doors, where he stood with his back to Cadel, gazing out over the treetops. "Have you ever wondered about your
real
parents?" he said at last.
"I guess...," Cadel replied. Fie was growing extremely uncomfortable.
"You must have tried to find out who they are," said Thaddeus. "Someone like you. With the Net so close at hand."
"I tried," Cadel admitted. In fact, he had tried very hard. He had dug through the Piggotts' family archives (such as they were) and found a birth certificate that listed his father as Daryl Poynter-Chuffley and his mother as Susan Jones. Unfortunately, he had got no further. There were no Poynter-Chuffleys to be found on the Internet—not even on various births, deaths, and marriages sites—and as for Susan Jones, well, that was a name too common to be traced. He could find no hospital records, because his birth had apparently taken place at home. And the home in question no longer existed, according to his research. It had been torn down to make way for a shopping mall.