"Thirteen cuts. That makes it somewhat difficult." He thought for a minute, turning the pages of the Bryant folio.
Jazz, he knew, was not his prediliction. He had felt for the longest time that those who best grasped the finer details of mature jazz stylings were themselves musicians, or at least had to be. Then there came blues, which he understood but didn't share an empathy with, since by disposition, he was never of the temperament to be satisfied with real hardcore blues. He was rarely despondent. And he never really wanted to be. That desire to be
willfully
down-and-out seemed part of the pleasure of listening to the blues. And as a consequence, he understood the logic behind the government action of outlawing most types of blues: it became too easy to succumb to Liu Shan's Syndrome.
Yet Seth Bryant was an important individual, even though he was just one of a thousand or so a week who were now being reported as victim of the Syndrome.
"Let's send this one up to San Francisco," he decided, handing Christy the portfolio on Bryant. "Harley Albright would be a good try on Bryant. He's a former saxophone player, and one of the best Stalkers for jazz and blues."
"Right." She took the folder.
Still avoiding the portfolio on the movie star, Lanier opened the folio of Perry Eventide. Lanier showed surprised on his face.
Christy watched him. "He's been gone the longest of the three. Almost a month."
Perry Eventide's name was nearly a household word. He was the discoverer of the temporary cure to the disease which caused the Syndrome, Baktropol. It was not an immunization drug, upon which the user could comfortably rely forever, but a stimulant that caused the chemicals within the blood to enervate the brain to a state which allowed for a more intense, vivid state of perception. It was something akin to an amplified amphetamine. It was quite powerful,
and
illegal, unless prescribed by a doctor or psychiatrist. The drug happened to be mildly addictive. The more you took, the less effective it became. It was vital, nonetheless.
Unfortunately, if the Syndrome continued to mutate and worsen, another cure would have to be found. Everyone was looking for a drug that attacked the disease organism directly, rather than a serum that worked on the brain chemistry of human beings.
Lanier closed the portfolio. "A definite" Then he opened it again. "Let's see what made him go under."
Christy walked around through the morning light which poured through the window. "Barber. His
Second Essay for Orchestra
. We just happen to have it on a wafer, in fact."
Lanier craned over the data sheets. "Interesting piece, oddly moody in places, although most of Barber's music would've bored him to death. Barber's pretty much varied in theme and structure. I can imagine someone going under to his
Adagio for Strings
, but not the
Essay
."
Christy brandished the folio of the movie star. "I think that you might want to consider this one, if the Eventide interests you."
Lanier looked up at her from the couch. "Oh, why's that?"
"They're, uh, related." She smiled playfully, stressing the last word.
"Oh, really?" Lanier's interest sparked. He sipped his tea as he sat back with the portfolio, getting comfortable for this one.
"Ellie Estevan." He paused, considering her photograph that was clipped to the report. "
So that's
what happened to her. I thought she was kidnapped for a publicity stunt or went off on one of her binges to Mexico."
Christy had provided a number of newspaper cuttings of Ellie Estevan and her notorious junkets around the world. Jet-set flings, outrageous love affairs, bouts with congressmen, cartel tycoons were all part of her life. It was a wonder that she had time to make films.
"I thought you'd be interested in this." Christy lifted a flimsy photograph cut from one of the nation's more libelous scandal magazines.
Lanier studied it. "Albertson Randell? No kidding." He sat up.
Lanier rarely had time to read the newspaper or the scandal sheets, and usually wasn't interested in gossip—feeling that most news was gossip anyway. But the photograph was taken at a Democratic party in Manhattan at which Ellie Estevan and a host of other celebrities were present. Albertson Randell was linked arm in arm with Ellie Estevan, on one side, and Katie Babcock, the President of the United States, on the other. All three were smiling gloriously for the world's press photographers.
"I wonder why I hadn't seen this before?" Lanier thought out loud. "It might have helped when I went in looking for Randell."
Christy stood back up. "Well, it hardly matters now, since you did rescue him. Besides, Estevan might only be missing, not necessarily succumbed."
"Yes, but there's a connection here." Then he looked closer at the report. "In fact, there seem to be more connections here than I can figure out."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, it's hard to explain. He did appear anxious to remain, much more so than in ordinary cases." Then Lanier fell into deeper thought, setting down the folio, remembering the blood, remembering Randell …
And the women
. "Women seem to play an extraordinary role in his psychological makeup." There was so much he had left out of his report to the President. The particulars, the
bloody
particulars.
He considered the photographs of Ellie Estevan. He had never seen any of her movies, since he rarely had the time to whip into Los Angeles. Since concerts were slowly being phased out by the government, movies were once again becoming quite popular. It seemed that when combined with theater or film, music didn't cater to the effects of Liu Shan's Syndrome.
With popular forms of music practically condemned, movies became the safest form of entertainment. The fantasies were programmed and the music was just dispassionate enough to keep the audiences from slipping. Especially if their attention was spent on someone such as Ms. Estevan. And since Ellie Estevan's career spanned both television and movies, her audience was quite broadly based.
"I take it the scandal sheets don't know about her yet."
"As far as I know," Christy said.
"She certainly is popular enough. I'd guess she's hounded wherever she goes."
Christy nodded in agreement. "Her movies are incredible. People keep going back time and time again. Everyone loves her."
Two things immediately occurred to Lanier as he read. The first was that Ellie Estevan had appeared in one of the country's most libidinous gentleman's magazines—which, upon reflection, was not too unusual for women in the film industry these days. But the other item struck home soundly. Ellie Estevan appeared in the first "particle" motion picture broadcast on television, which ended up salvaging the entire beleagured television industry. Seen in brief five- to fifteen-second clips wedged in between commercials, Ellie Estevan's particle movies had to be watched every night for the bits of action and sparse dialogue that would, over a fifty-two-week period of time, amount to an entire story.
Lanier remembered, years ago, catching a glimpse of a fierce domestic scene on television in an intense ten-second burst right between two commercials. It was the carrot before the horse: he had to watch the next set of commercials to see how the argument resolved itself. To his disappointment, it did not end that night, nor the night after. He watched a week's worth of television to catch the "particles" of the story. He gave up when he considered a whole year of watching television just to catch a few seconds a night of a story.
But the strategy seemed to work for the industry. More people watched television, and more people became enraptured with the charms of Ellie Estevan's fiery eyes and blond-streaked light brown hair. There
was
something strangely compelling about her beauty, but Lanier couldn't quite place his finger on it. He had enough on his mind as it was.
"You said that Perry Eventide and Ms. Estevan had some sort of connection. What was it?"
"Here it is on page five of the report."
He leafed back the sheets.
When it had become clear that the world had a crisis on its hands due to the effects of the Liu Shan Syndrome, Perry Eventide of North Haven Chemicals spent a couple of weeks in the cellar of one of their plants and came up with a formula for Baktropol. It did exactly what was needed to be done to the victims of the Syndrome. It stabilized the sufferer's emotions and cleared his head regarding any lingering emotional problem. The music, whatever it happened to be, no longer had anything to thrive upon, like a parasite deprived of its host.
Overnight, Perry Eventide became a celebrity. North Haven Chemicals owned the patent and Eventide shared little financial reward in the company's success. He wasn't bitter about it, for Perry Eventide, small and unassuming, was an easygoing individual who truly enjoyed going to work among the smells of the Cleveland, Ohio, plant. A bachelor, shy and plain-looking, he swiftly became an "item" for the world press in general and the scandal sheets in particular. He was touted as a trail-blazer, a humanitarian, a hero from the mean streets of the petrochemical industry.
But the money came with the fame, and he went on part-time work at North Haven, and eventually had to resign himself to his notoriety. He attended party after party, had meetings with politicians who were eager to be seen in his presence. He breakfasted with other luminaries of the scientific community. He was offered a chair in a research department of one of the best universities in the country.
In some circles it was even being said that Eventide's discovery prevented the rest of the world from going to war with the United States. With industrial pollution from the rich nations increasing unabated, along with the corporate wars being waged in Africa and South America, the United States wasn't gaining any friends. It was given the blame for the whole scheme of things.
When the Syndrome appeared to be the threat it eventually became, something was desperately needed. Virtually all industry and every individual life became unglued. People were disappearing at work; husbands came home to empty households. The sudden discovery of Baktropol was hailed from every corner of the nation as being the panacea the authorities had been searching for.
It was at a Hollywood premiere of Ellie Estevan's latest film,
From Earth's Center
, that Perry Eventide had the pleasure of making her acquaintance. The photograph Lanier held before him told him more than anything the report might have.
"She sure does get around, doesn't she?" He held up a two-column ribbon of newsprint cut from the Los Angeles Times. "Doesn't seem like her type, though."
Christy watched Lanier's face for more than a proper and professional interest in the case.
Nothing seemed to be lurking in the shadows.
Lanier plopped the file onto the coffee table and hoisted up his cup of lukewarm tea. "I think the Eventide comes first. He, at least, might have something more to contribute. I'll consider Ms. Estevan after more returns are in." He smiled at the joke.
But there was no joke. Christy momentarily left the room. A tight fist in Lanier's gut told him that he had said the wrong thing. Or possibly the right thing.
Like playing God
, he thought regretfully. Picking and choosing whom to rescue and whom to abandon was really what stalking came down to. Those he decided not to rescue would wander their enclosed worlds forever, unless another Stalker opted for them.
Walkers, they were called. Lanier wanted to help as many people as he could, but time crippled him, as well as mental exhaustion
and
the ever-present need to retain his anonymity. But there constantly hovered a specter of residual guilt when stories grew of mothers committing suicide because no one could search for their children who had succumbed. Husbands going crazy, lives torn in half. The ones who didn't make it out were called Walkers.
They were the accidental inhabitants of someone else's paranoid fantasy, since often the same fantasy would beckon more than just one unfortunate person. Lanier had known one or two in his career, and the other Stalkers reported more. Even in his search for Randell, Lanier hoped that he might find a Walker or two among Randell's dreamlings.
But all those women
…
At least Lanier could have rescued one or two more in the same sitting. But Randell, unfortunately, had been alone.
So private lives deteriorated, business and industry limped along as best it could. But politics and diplomacy bordered on chaos, and often lapsed into internecine warfare as experts looked for causes and solutions, and lobbied for available funding.
But the biggest agony was music itself.
Music was, and always had been, a vital part of human culture. Folk tunes and whistle-while-you-work melodies were just as important as grand symphonies. The world was slowly being robbed of the emotional release that music continually provided. Music literally saved lives. It made man rocket to euphoric states or plunged him into shallows of despair. Now, music caused terror and instability.
Except to those immune, those who could listen to anything without the fear of succumbing. And there were only eighteen hundred of those.
Ironically, proletarian China suffered as well. For the disease didn't die out by the time it blew over Europe and the Caucasus. Its current mutation guaranteed a long life for the organism. And the Chinese had a tradition of folk music reaching back thousands of years. Millions had disappeared, though the official reports were not saying just how many. It afflicted everyone in ways that Lanier could not bear to consider.
"Let's do the Barber piece in twenty minutes. Shelve the Estevan for the time being. She may be important to the pleasure of many people, but there are priorities," he said, closing the Perry Eventide file.
With a pressurized
whump
! the door to Francis Lanier's workroom closed at Christy's touch. There was silence inside and silence outside. From the music library adjacent to the workroom, she placed herself at the transmission board, staring through the one-way mirror, watching Lanier adjust the equipment on his belt and beneath his priest's collar. Then he seated himself on the floor in his usual half-lotus position, his right foot crossed over his left thigh. Perry Eventide rated an ambulance—in the sense that only senators rate helicopters—and Christy sent out the call to the hospital as Lanier prepared himself.