Again that trembling of the lips before he was able to speak in a more or less human voice. “Trying very hard,” he managed to say.
“T’do what, John, finish a paper, or fry your brain?”
This seemed to agitate Davinda, to incite him to make an effort to speak more forcefully if not to make more sense.
“To make it dance,” he said.
“
It?
What’s
it
?”
“It’s in the bits and bytes,” Davinda said.
“
What’s
in the bits and bytes?”
“The dance.”
“
Dance
?”
“The dance of the bits and bytes.”
“What are you trying to say, Dr. Davinda?” said NovaNews.
Davinda seemed to be struggling to say something, or struggling with something, maybe both, and not quite making it.
“I . . . I . . . say I say . . . I say . . . nothing . . .” he said. He snorted up the rest of the dust.
And then he spoke in that eerily affectless voice, far flatter than any but the most primitive vocal emulation software.
“I am nothing.”
“You’re
nothing
, Dr. Davinda?” said StarNet. “Can we quote you on that?”
“It is the voice that speaks from the dance.”
Merde!
John Sri Davinda had now become the center of attention. If the three journalists hadn’t been recording before, they certainly were now. Braithwaite looked humanly concerned. Most of the rest of them seemed merely curious. Chu Lun, for some reason, looked worried, but concern for the state of Davinda’s sanity didn’t seem to be it.
Stella Marenko was studying Davinda intently. Ivan was doing likewise, but, practiced at it as he must be, this did not prevent him from refilling Davinda’s glass with vodka without looking, without spilling a single drop.
“It, what?” said Stella Marenko.
“It is real.”
“
What
is real?” said Ivan Marenko.
“Only it is real.”
“Ah, is riddle!” Ivan Marenko said enthusiastically. “Only it is real. . . ? Dance of bits and bytes . . . ? Speaks from dance . . . ?”
He pondered thoughtfully for a moment, or at least pretended to; then a metaphorical lightbulb seemed to go on over his head. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “Must be . . .
program
! Must be . . . your
climate model
, da?”
Oh shit.
Davinda turned his empty eyes on Ivan Marenko, blinked rapidly, spoke in what passed for his human voice. “The interface between matter and energy—”
“—is
pattern
, da?” said Ivan. “Is neither and both! Dance of bits and bytes!”
Davinda’s eyes seemed to widen in surprise, no mean feat under their dilated circumstances. Ivan stared back unwaveringly for a moment. Then he broke into the innocent beaming smile of a small boy.
“Love riddles!” he said.
“Is very good at them,” said Stella. “Why not? Ivan is one big hairy riddle himself!”
Ivan Marenko laughed. “I’ll drink to that!” he exclaimed, and clinked glasses with Stella, then Davinda.
“You’ll drink to anything!” Stella proclaimed, and downed her vodka in a single gulp.
Ivan did likewise, then nudged Davinda. Without looking away from Ivan, Davinda brought his glass to his lips and drank it down.
“This climate model of yours is big riddle itself, da . . . ?” Ivan Marenko said.
“What do you know about climate models, Mr. Marenko?” Chu Lun broke in with suspicious haste, as if trying to do Monique’s work for her by breaking this up before it went any further.
“I don’t know much about climate models,” Ivan said, “but I know what I like. And freezing ass off in new Siberian winter is not it!”
“And being stuck with bill for privilege in the bargain!” added Stella.
“So, Herr Doktor Professor John Sri Davinda, what is big secret hidden behind screens in Grand Palais?” Ivan Marenko said. “Is
your
secret, da . . . ?” He held up his hand. “Wait! Don’t tell. Is good riddle. We get three guesses first. Stella . . . ?”
“Is . . . computer, da? Must be some kind of
very
special computer . . .”
Davinda turned sharply to stare at Stella Marenko. Other than the speed of his reaction, no emotion showed. But that was enough to elicit a knowing smile from Ivan, to make Chu Lun squirm.
“So . . .” said Ivan, “what makes a computer special . . . ?”
“Nothing, it’s not the hardware, it’s the software!” Monique blurted quickly, hoping to deflect the speculation before it could come to the question of the species of any installed cerebral meatware. “The, uh, dance of the bits and bytes. The climate model itself.”
Chu Lun looked relieved. John Sri Davinda turned to look in her direction but neither spoke nor reacted. Sweat had broken out on his brow. His eyes showed little but giant black pupils floating in marbled pink sclera.
Maybe the dust and vodka were finally catching up to him. Monique willed Ivan Marenko to pour him another shot. Probably no telepathy was involved or needed, but Ivan complied, and poured himself one too.
“Two guesses,” Ivan said. “Last one is mine.” He picked up his glass, sipped at it thoughtfully, clinked glasses with Davinda, nodded. “Special climate model program, okay, da, runs on special computer, must be . . . what?”
Drink it!
Monique telepathed.
John Sri Davinda lifted his glass slowly and mechanically like a good little robot and slugged down his vodka. Definitely approaching condition terminal.
Stella Marenko laid out another line of dust, handed Davinda the rolled-up bill. Yes, yes, Monique prayed hopefully, another line, another shot, and maybe he passes out.
“Is maybe not digital program, is why it needs special secret machine . . . ?” Ivan Marenko said. “Is
analog
? Is maybe
quantum
? Has
uncertainty program
to roll the bones . . . ?”
Ivan Marenko paused, refilled Davinda’s glass.
“Or robot hand to toss the stones for famous LAO TE CHING . . . ?”
“
TAO
TE CHING, Ivan,” corrected Stella Marenko, “not
Lao
.”
“Ah, is famous
I
-CHING of
Dr. Lao
. . .”
What I tell you three times is true?
Maybe not true, but not random either, the utterance of the mystery
word three times in rapid succession by the Marenkos did not seem like an accident to Monique. Particularly since they had managed to stress it twice.
All the more so considering the effect it had on John Sri Davinda.
“Lao is the Tao of the Chao,” he babbled so woozily that it was difficult for Monique to decide which of his schizoid voices was doing it. “The Tao of the Chao is Lao . . .”
He snorted up the line of dust convulsively. “The Chao of the Tao is Lao . . .” He began to vibrate. No, he was shaking. He slugged down the vodka. It didn’t help. His blink rate went sky-high.
The vodka, the dust, some sort of engrammatic reaction to a keyword, whatever, sweat was pouring down John Sri Davinda’s forehead now, he had turned an almost greenish pale. Monique had been hoping for the drugs and drink to take effect, but not like this.
“Dr. Davinda!” she cried, rising clumsily from her seat.
“Lao is the Tao of the Chao . . . the Tao of the Chao is Lao . . . the Chao of the Tao is Lao . . . Lao is the Tao of the Chao . . .”
Davinda was chanting this gibberish like a mantra now, as if trying to enter a trance state, or perhaps chant his way out of one which he had already entered . . .
Monique reached Davinda, put her hands on his shoulders, shook him, tried to raise him—
“. . . the Tao of the Chao is Lao . . . the Chao of the Tao is Lao . . . Lao is the Tao of the Chao . . .”
“Will you please help me get him out of here to someplace quiet instead of just sitting there?” Monique shouted at Eric Esterhazy.
Eric rose from his chair, went to her.
“Well, I can see why you left this guy off your guest list, Ms. Calhoun,” he said suavely, as he grabbed hold of Davinda’s right arm. Monique grabbed the left, and together they managed to hoist John Sri Davinda to his feet.
Whether he had achieved nirvana or just passed into a deeper state of intoxication, Davinda stopped chanting and hung there limply between them, barely conscious enough to keep his eyes open and his feet moving one after the other as they began to walk him out of the bar.
Prince Charming, in the act thereof, managed to turn his head,
and shrug at the Marenkos’ table, where the reaction varied between the usual shock and the usual lugubrious amusement such unseemly scenes elicited.
“Sorry about this, ladies and gentleman,” he said, “the poor fellow doesn’t seem to be able to hold his vodka.”
“Is not
his
vodka he cannot hold!” said Stella Marenko.
“Is
ours
!” shouted Ivan.
And they removed their victim from the scene under the cover of the usual nervously boorish laughter.
The only empty boudoir had been the Kama Sutra room, and after Eric helped Monique Calhoun drag Davinda into it, he could hardly resist repairing to the computer room, dismissing the guard, and peeking, as it were, through the video keyhole.
“Open sez me,” Eric said, activating Ignatz, and taking a perverse pleasure in choosing Mom from the personality menu, for in some way he figured she virtually deserved this.
“Let’s see the Kama Sutra room, Mom.”
“Your prurient interest is my command, kiddo.”
This boudoir’s walls were covered with life-size pseudo-Hindu erotic stone statuary, as many positions of the Kama Sutra as could be squeezed into such a confined space; not enough to satisfy a completist, perhaps, but more than one might think. The ceiling simulated rosy twilight. The floor was a continuous nest of cushioning liberally scattered with large pillows, not authentic, maybe, but a lot more practical than doing it on a stone floor.
The effect was that of being the centerpiece of an energetic and imaginative orgy frozen in stone and time. Monique had built up a kind of bedstead out of pillows in the midst of this erotic profusion and propped the supine Davinda up against it. Davinda’s eyes were open, but that was the only obvious evidence of consciousness. She kneeled before him in a posture that, given their surroundings, suggested imminent fellatio, but the look on her face as she studied Davinda hardly suggested arousal, and oddly enough, not so much well-justified disgust as a grim species of relief.
“Sound,” said Eric.
“. . . all right?” said Monique. “You’re not going to vomit?”
Davinda stared straight ahead. He might conceivably have lost consciousness with his eyes open. He might even be dead.
This thought had apparently occurred to Monique too.
She leaned closer to Davinda, putting a palm on his chest to feel for his heartbeat, hesitantly attempting to bring her face close enough to his to visually observe his breath without being constrained to smell it.
Eric couldn’t help himself. The temptation was just too great.
The erotic ambiance of the boudoirs could be enhanced by music, either prearranged or piped in from the computer room.
“Let’s give them that instrumental Hindu Hard version of ‘I Can’t Get No Satisfaction,’ but just at the subliminal edge . . .”
“Low, Eric, really low.”
“Takes one to know one, Mom.”
The mike in the Kama Sutra room was not sensitive enough to relay such subtle music back to the computer room, nor did the Hindu Hard version of the ancient Rolling Stones classic raise the dead in any manner that Eric had imagined or intended.
Davinda’s head began to sway back and forth a bit, a clear enough sign of life. He belched quite loudly, causing Monique to yank her head backward, and, considering all that he had consumed, causing Eric to be thankful that the surveillance gear was not equipped for smell.
His lips began to move.
“What?” said Monique, understandably reluctant to lean closer to hear what he was muttering.
The technology, however, left Eric under no such esthetic constraints. “Turn up the microphone gain,” he told Ignatz.
“. . . is the Tao of the Chao . . . Lao is the Tao of the Chao . . . the Tao of the Chao is Lao . . .”
That mantric Third Force babblement again, and Eric needed neither a guru nor Ignatz to tell him that the magic word upon which it was centered was “Lao.”
Perhaps it was merely the meaningless automatic playback of what might have been implanted in some island of recording cells in the climatologist’s besotted brain by the Marenkos. But just maybe it was that which they had sought to evoke bubbling up, via the booze and
the dust and the subliminal music—the code word or acronym for whatever lay within that mysterious enclosure in the Grand Palais.
For whatever surprise Davinda was going to spring on Sunday, assuming he survived tomorrow morning’s heroic hangover to do it.
“. . . Lao is the Tao of the Chao . . . Lao is . . .”