Authors: Lawrence Sanders
“Lewisohn,” I said. In a normal, conversational tone.
It had no effect on him. His eyes did not blink. I adjusted volume control to 2.
“Lewisohn,” I said again.
Eye reaction this time. Flickering briefly in the direction of the loudspeaker within the bell jar. He probably heard it as a whisper. I moved the volume control up to 3.
“Lewisohn,” I repeated.
He heard that all right. Rapid blinking. Eyes focused on loudspeaker. I moved my head as close to the glass as I could.
“Lewisohn,” I said, “move your eyes slowly, slowly to your left. As far as you can without feeling pain. You should be able to make me out. This is Nicholas Bennington Flair. How do you feel, Lewisohn?”
Why didn’t I stand directly in front of the bell jar where he could see me without turning his eyes? Because in front of the bell jar, as close as we could get it to minimize distortion, we had set up a small viewing screen. On which Lewisohn would be able to scan books, newspapers, reports, computer printouts, etc.—all to be taped at his command. For his exclusive viewing.
“How do you feel, Lewisohn?” I repeated.
The computer printout began its soft chatter. I switched off my microphone. I looked about. Paul Bumford was standing nearby, talking with Tom Lee, Team Leader of Project Phoenix.
“Paul,” I called.
He came over immediately. I drew him close. Spoke in a low voice.
“Paul, interrogation of Lewisohn will be difficult if the interrogator has to run back and forth from microphone to computer to scan Lewisohn’s response. A longer cord on the mike is no answer. Then you wouldn’t be able to monitor his facial reactions. Get on the flasher to Phoebe. Ask her how long it will take to program the entire stored vocabulary into vocal responses. It can be done; the hardware’s available. Her computers will trigger spoken words on tape. The words should be recorded by some em with vocal qualities similar to Lewisohn’s natural voice. There must be tapes of him speaking
somewhere
they can use as models."
“Right.” Paul nodded. “I’ll get on it at once.”
“I don’t want the Chief Director in here until he can actually have a ‘conversation’ with Lewisohn’s head. Talk to him and apparently hear Lewisohn ‘talking’ back. Much more impressive.”
“I concur,” Paul said. “Marvelous idea.”
“Meanwhile, assign a server to tear off printout from the machine as it comes in‘and hustle it over to Two servers would be better.”
I went back to the bell jar. To my original position. I switched on the microphone.
“Lewisohn,” I said. “Here I am. Nicholas Bennington Flair. Can you see me?”
The computer chattered. In a few seconds a strip of printout was held up in front of me. I scanned it: I CAN
SEE YOU. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME?
I took a deep breath. Then I told him. Exactly. Everything. I came down hard on how new and revolutionary it was. How he would have stopped without it. How civilian physicians had examined him and his medical history and had agreed that he was doomed. But now his brain was, as far as we knew, as close to being immortal as any animate thing could be. ‘ ‘Immortal. ” I thought that was the key word and kept hitting it. “You will be immortal.” “Your brain will never stop.” “The world’s first immortal object.” Etc., etc. I described the precautions that had been taken and would be taken to ensure his safety: A fail-safe power supply for the machines that kept his brain alive. Gradually improved blood supply as we learned more about his needs. More physical comfort inside his bell jar. A bombproof and sabotage-proof shelter. Whatever he wanted to scan. Even his dumb romantic novels. All converted to tape and projected on the viewing screen before his eyes. No more pain. Above all, no more pain. And he could continue to serve. To serve the US Government which, in gratitude, would keep his brain animate and active. Forever.
Even before I finished speaking, the return from the GPA-1 computer came in. Was torn off in a jagged strip, rushed over to me, held before my eyes.
I had expected a stream of invective. Obscenities. Endless, gabbled curses. Blasting me for what I had conceived and what I had done. I expected that condemnation, and I wanted it. It would be a signal of Lewisohn’s “normality.” But I also wanted the judgment for myself. For reasons I could not compute.
But it was a brief message: MAYA
. I
WANT MAYA. TO TALK TO. TO SEE. MAYA.
I looked at the torn scrap.
“What?” I said into the microphone.
The response came through.
MAYA, it scanned, I WANT TO SEE MAYA LEIGHTON. BRING HER
CLOSE. I WANT TO SEE HER. TALK TO HER. OR I WON’T SERVE.
I stared at that pumpkin head. Glaring eyes. Outraged. Like the starving children of Pakistan.
“Yes,” I said. “All right, Lewisohn. I’ll get Maya for you.”
On August 4, 1999, I was in my penthouse apartment. At the compound, Manhattan Landing, GPA-1. Trying to serve my way through four weeks’ accumulation of bills, bank statements, dividend checks, scientific journals, personal correspondence, kaka.
My flasher chimed at about 2130. It was Seymour Dove. Calling from San Diego.
Seymour! ” I said. Pleased. ‘ ‘Good to see you again. How have you been?”
He wasted no time on pleasantries. His face, on screen, was expressionless.
“Nick,” he said, “do you remember the address of the beachhouse where I met you?”
“Sure. It was—”
“Don’t say it,” he broke in quickly. “How many digits in the number?”
I instantly became as serious as he.
“Three digits,” I said.
“Correct,” he said. “Keep them in mind, then duplicate the three. Now you’ve got a six-digit number. Right?”
“Right,” I said.
“Add this number to those six: five one two seven six three one. Got that?”
“Five one two seven six three one. Correct?”
“You have the sum of the first six digits plus the seven-digit number I gave you?”
“I have it,” I told him.
“Can you call me at that number, in precisely one hour?” he asked. “Call, don’t flash. It’s important.”
“Will do,” I said. I started to say “Thank you,” but he had already switched off.
Precisely an hour later I was calling him from a public phone booth outside the compound.
“Seymour,” I said, “what’s this all about?”
“First of all, ” he said, “Simon Hawkley stopped two nights ago. In his sleep. I sent you a letter, but you probably don’t have it yet. ” Silence.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. Finally. “A gentleman. I was hoping to see him again. And tell him . . . But things ...” “But that isn’t why I called,” Seymour Dove went on. “I still have a friend at Scilla—the secretary—and about an hour or so ago she told me a government nose has been around. Investigating the sale of Scilla. Who the present owners bought the property from and when.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Did she say what agency?”
“Bureau of Public Security.”
“Uh-huh. One nose?”
“Yes. An em.”
“He wasn’t wearing a checkered cap by any chance, was he?”
“Wearing a checkered cap?”
“Yes. Did she mention it?”
“Wait a minute. I’ll ask her. She’s in the bedroom.”
I waited patiently. Finally he came back on.
“No,” he said. “She says he wasn’t wearing any hat at all. Why did you—”
“Thanks very much, Seymour,” I said. “I appreciate your calling. It was kind of you.”
“You’ll be all right, Nick?” he asked anxiously. “Even if they trace it?”
“No problem,” I said. “Thanks again, Seymour. Sorry to hear about Hawkley. Did he leave anyone? Wife? Children?”
“No,” he said. “He was alone.”
I was about to say “Aren’t we all?” but then realized how fatuous that was. So I merely said good-bye and broke the connection. I didn’t think Dove was in any danger. He was a born survivor. Was I?
Investigation of the Scilla plot. . . . That could prove fatal. If they traced ownership to me during a period when Scilla had been selling hallucinogens to my Section. How had the BPS been alerted to Scilla?
I had hypothecated a scenario to account for the missing 5 cc flask of 416HBL-CW3. For the fact that a known terrorist, Arthur Raddo, had a friend named “Nick” who looked like me. (Anyone could introduce himself to Raddo as “Nick,” and anyone of my approximate height and weight, disguised with dark wig, mustache and Vandyke beard would resemble me in the dimness of the Adonis Club.) My hypothetical scenario even accounted for the sharing of Millie Jean Grunwald’s apartment in Detroit.
Assume a terrorist group, perhaps survivors of the Society of Obsoletes’ conspiracy, were authors of the plot against me. Perhaps in revenge for my role in the stopping of Hammond, Wiley, DeTilly, and the others. Assume such a dissident organization might very well have members in SATSEC. Living and serving in the GPA-1 compound. It would not be too difficult for a laboratory server to manipulate the theft of the
Clostridium botulinum.
And to forge my name on the withdrawal card.
The subsequent removal of the entire flask had been masterfully planned and executed. And timed. Since it occurred after I had answered R. Sam Bigelow’s inquiry. Stating I had verified the existence of the bottle by personal inspection.
The motive for effectualizing the botulism outbreak in GPA-11 was more complex. Their prime desire, I assumed, was to implicate me in a horrendous crime. But I suspected there might have been other reasons: The whole operation could have been in the nature of a “laboratory experiment,” an exercise in terrorism to hone planning techniques, and test the determination, skill, and loyalty of members.
It might also have been a deliberate attempt to destroy the Beist movement by incriminating one of its members. It was quite possible that the late Arthur Raddo was duped. A selected pigeon. Perhaps his control was an em he knew as “Nick. ” A bearded em he met only in the dimness of Adonis and from whom he took his orders and received the flask of 416HBL-CW3.
There were many unknowns, many possibilities. The terrorist organization scenario was not a neat, elegant solution. But I felt it explained most of the bizarre occurrences that had been bedeviling me. It might even account for the continued presence of those checkered-capped snoops, if the organization was large enough.
But now, after computing what Seymour Dove had told me, I realized a new factor had appeared in the equation: the interest of the Bureau of Public Security. Perhaps they had been alerted by their analysis of pure glycerol in the replaced 5 cc flask in my pharmlab. But I doubted that; I would have been informed of any BPS investigation in GPA-1. Or would I? Perhaps the BPS told my servers I had no need to know. Perhaps the discovery that the bottle supposed to contain 416HBL-CW3 now contained no
Clostridium botulinum
was enough to set R. Sam Bigelow’s noses on my track. Hence the investigation of Scilla. Perhaps the ems in checkered caps were BPS snoops. It wouldn’t be the first time they had used the technique of open and obvious surveillance to panic a suspect and start him running.
I debated if it might not be wise to go to R. Sam Bigelow, or even Chief Director Michael Wingate, and tell either, or both, that I was being manipulated. I decided it would not be wise. Because either, or both, might be doing the manipulating. Why would they desire my destruction? Because the CD had learned of my secret meetings with his wife. Possibly. . . . Maybe. . . . Perhaps. . . .
I stayed in GPA-1 for almost a week. Serving on my official duties as DEPDIRSAT and cleaning up my personal obligations. It wasn’t until late in the week that I realized I was settling my affairs. As an object might do contemplating a lengthy trip. Or. . . .
When I left the compound, I flew to Washington, D.C., took the Metro to the Chevy Chase place, and left my luggage there. Showered, changed zipsuits, and went back to the Metro for the long ride to Alexandria. There I could requisition wheels from the Hospice No. 4 motor pool.
Construction had already started on converting the Lewisohn Building into an ultrasecure bombproof shelter. The heavy, windowless walls were up to the second floor. I had to show my BIN card and official ID three times, and be identified twice by voiceprint check, before I was allowed into Operating Theater D. There was a ten-object staff in attendance, twenty-four hours a day. They had been ordered to stay out of Lewisohn’s sight as much as possible.
Lewisohn’s head, in its domed greenhouse, sat in lonely splendor in the middle of the softly lighted theater. As I approached, I saw he was scanning a computer printout projected on the small screen in front of his bell jar. I stood as close as I could and waited patiently until he noticed me.
“Nicholas Bennington Flair!” came booming through a loudspeaker atop the computer readout screen linked to GPA-1.
Hie voice startled me. I knew they had completed the taping of the computer vocabulary. But I had never heard the voice before. It was remarkably like Lewisohn’s natural voice: harsh and yet precise, loud and angry, with an occasional phlegmy splutter.
I looked more closely at Lewisohn’s head. He was still staring at the viewing screen. But his eyes were not moving; he was not scanning. I picked up the transmitting microphone.
“Yes,” I said. “This is Flair.”
“Satisfied?” the canned voice asked.
“Yes,” I said, “I’m satisfied. The operation was a success, and the patient survived. And is serving, I see. Are you satisfied?”
Stupid question. He didn’t answer. For which I was thankful.
“What are you serving on?” I asked him.
“You wouldn’t understand,” he thought.
“Try me,” I said.
Then the lids slowly rose. Reptilian eyes focused, stared at me.
“You have no need to know,” the mechanical voice crackled.
The words shivered me. It was a common enough phrase. Probably justified in this instance. But I had become abnormally sensitive to such slights. Did everyone know something I didn’t know?
“Are you getting everything you want—uh—need—uh—ask for?” I said. Difficult, talking to a head.