He put out his tongue to test the limits of the thing enclosing his head, and found-as he had half expected-a pair of teats. He tested the left-hand one with his lips, then seized it in his teeth and teased cold liquid out of it. The thirst afflicting him in his dream had been real, and the orange-flavored juice, slightly syrupy with dissolved glucose, was very welcome.
When he finally consented to open his eyes Silas found himself looking out upon a courtroom. It was an impressionistic image, a mere cartoon rather than a sophisticated product of mimetic videosynthesis. The twelve jurors who were positioned to his left were barely sketched in, and the prosecuting attorney whose position was to the right had little more in the way of features than they did. Directly in front of him was a black-robed judge whose image was more detailed, although he didn't look any more real real. The judge's face had simply been more carefully drawn, presumably in order to allow for more effective animation.
The judge's platform was about a meter above the level of the dock whose caricaturish steel spikes rose in front of Arnett's viewpoint. This allowed its occupant to look down at the prisoner, mingling contempt with hostility.
Silas guessed that he and the "judge" were quite alone within the hypothetical space of the virtual environment. He could not believe that an actual prosecutor and a human jury were going to hook into the shared illusion at some later time. He knew that it must have required a conspiracy of at least four persons-perhaps including sweet, seemingly innocent Catherine-to arrange his abduction, but a real mock trial would require four times as many. There was no shortage of crazy people to be found in the meshes of the Web, but wherever a dozen forgathered in innerspace you could bet your last dose that two would be corpspies and three others potential beanspillers.
For the time being, the counterfeit courtroom wasn't even under the aegis of an active program. Nothing moved except the judge, and that particular icon was almost certainly a mask, reproducing the facial expressions of a real person. Silas tried to take heart from that. Masks need not bear the slightest resemblance to the actual features of the people using them, but their echoes of tics and mannerisms could offer valuable clues to the identity of their users. If the slightly narrowed expression in those coal black eyes and the tension lines etched upon the raptorial face were were the property of the user rather than the image, he might eventually be able to conjure up an image of the actual eyes and the actual mouth. the property of the user rather than the image, he might eventually be able to conjure up an image of the actual eyes and the actual mouth.
"Please state your name for the record," said the judge. His baritone voice wasn't obviously distorted but it was too stagey by half.
"Joan of Arc," said Silas weakly.
"Let the name Silas Arnett be entered in the record," said the sonorous voice. "I feel obliged to point out, Dr. Arnett, that there really is is a record. Every moment of your trial will be preserved for posterity, and any parts of your testimony may be broadcast as we see fit. My advice is that you should conduct yourself as though the whole world were watching. Given the nature of the charges which will be brought against you, that may well be the case." a record. Every moment of your trial will be preserved for posterity, and any parts of your testimony may be broadcast as we see fit. My advice is that you should conduct yourself as though the whole world were watching. Given the nature of the charges which will be brought against you, that may well be the case."
"That's Arc with a c c," Silas said, trying to sound laconic, "not a k k." He wondered whether he ought to be speaking at all. No matter how mad this setup was, there had to be method in it. If he said too much, his words might be edited and recombined into any kind of statement at all. On the other hand, his voice was no secret; if these people could screw up his security systems efficiently enough to remove him from his own home they could certainly plunder the records in his phone hood. He was, in any case, an old man-there must be tens of thousands of recordings of his voice in existence, easily amassable into a database from which clever software could synthesize anything from the Gettysburg Address to a falsetto rendition of "To Be a Pilgrim."
"Perhaps I should begin by summarizing the procedure," said the judge calmly. "This is, of course, merely a preliminary hearing. Your trial will not begin until tomorrow, at which time you will be called upon to give evidence under oath. At that time, no refusal to answer the charges brought against you will be tolerated, nor will any dissimulation. The purpose of the present session is to offer you the opportunity to make an opening statement, free of any pressure or duress. Should you wish to make a full confession now, that would, of course, be taken into consideration when your sentence is determined."
Perhaps I should begin by summarizing the possibilities, Silas thought. The rhetoric suggests Eliminators, but the only reason the Eliminators have remained a thorn in society's side for so long is that they have no organization. The sophistication of the operation suggests that it's a corp with real resources-but what kind of corp would snatch a retired playboy like me, and why?
It was not until he reached this impasse that the implications of what the voice had said sunk in. Tomorrow they would begin in earnest, at which time no refusal to answer would be tolerated no refusal to answer would be tolerated. That formulation suggested that they could and would employ torture, if necessary. Three days would be the minimum interval required to flush out his internal technology and disable his nanotech defenses against pain, injury, and aging-which implied that he had already been unconscious for at least forty-eight hours.
"Why all the ceremony?" he asked, his voice hardly above a whisper.
"Silas Arnett," the voice intoned with a solemnity that had to be satirical, "the principal charge laid against you is that you were an accessory to the crimes of Conrad Helier, enemy of mankind. There is no need for you to plead, as your guilt has already been determined. The purpose of this trial is to determine the extent of that guilt, and to establish an appropriate means of expiation."
"An appropriate means of expiation? appropriate means of expiation?" Silas repeated wonderingly. "I thought you people only had one sentence to hand down to those deemed unworthy of immortality: death by any convenient means."
"Death is not the only means of Elimination," said the voice, with a sudden injection of apparent sincerity, "as you, Dr. Arnett, know very well." As the last phrase was intoned, the cartoonish face of the judge hardened considerably-presumably in response to a sudden tension in the features of the man or woman behind it.
Well, at least that tells me what it is they want me to confess, Silas thought, even if it doesn't tell me why. After all these years, he had actually thought that the matter was dead and buried, but in a world of long-lived people-no matter how expert they might become in the artistry of forgetfulness-nothing was ever comprehensively dead and buried. Expertise in forgetfulness, alas, was not the same as generosity in forgiveness.
There was, Silas supposed, a revealing dishonesty in the fact that the Eliminators were almost the only people who talked freely and openly about the expectation of immortality in a world in which everyone hoped-and almost everyone believed believed-that the breakthrough to real real immortality would happen within his own lifetime. Serious people were required by reason to hedge the issue around in all sorts of ways, always speaking of immortality would happen within his own lifetime. Serious people were required by reason to hedge the issue around in all sorts of ways, always speaking of e emortality rather than immortality, always stressing that nobody could live forever even in a world without aging, always reminding their listeners that disease had not yet been entirely entirely banished from human affairs and probably never could be, always restating that some injuries were simply too extreme to be repaired even by the cleverest imaginable internal technology, and always remembering-perhaps above all else-that the life of the body and the life of the person were not the same thing . . . but all of that was just pedantry, bluff and bluster to cover up the raw force of underlying conviction that eternal life was truly within reach. banished from human affairs and probably never could be, always restating that some injuries were simply too extreme to be repaired even by the cleverest imaginable internal technology, and always remembering-perhaps above all else-that the life of the body and the life of the person were not the same thing . . . but all of that was just pedantry, bluff and bluster to cover up the raw force of underlying conviction that eternal life was truly within reach.
Silas realized that he was struggling reflexively against the straps that bound his wrists and ankles, even though the only effect his struggles had was to make his confinement even closer. Eternal life, it seemed, was no longer within his his reach, and he was in the process of being cast out of the pain-free paradise of the New Utopia. He was not only mortal but punishable, and his guilt had already been determined. reach, and he was in the process of being cast out of the pain-free paradise of the New Utopia. He was not only mortal but punishable, and his guilt had already been determined.
He was tempted to declare that Conrad Helier had not been an enemy of humankind at all-that he had, in fact, been the savior of humankind-but he had a shrewd suspicion that that kind of defense would be seen by his captor, and perhaps by the larger audience to whom his captor intended eventually to speak, as proof of his guilt.
"You have the right to remain silent, of course," the voice remarked, recovering all of its mocking pomposity. "It would, however, be far wiser to make a free and full confession of your involvement with Conrad Helier's conspiracy." The mask had relaxed again, but it was not unexpressive. Silas tried to concentrate his mind upon its subtle shifts in the faint hope that he might be able to penetrate the illusion.
"I've got twenty-four hours before the last of my protective nanotech is flushed away," Silas said, trying his utmost to keep his voice level. "A lot can happen in twenty-four hours. People must be searching for me. Even if Catherine was working for you the alarm will have been raised soon enough."
"You're right, of course," the judge informed him. "The police are searching for you with more than their usual diligence-Interpol has taken charge of the investigation, on the grounds that the Eliminators are a worldwide problem. Damon Hart's unsavory acquaintances are using their less orthodox methods to search for information as to your whereabouts. The Ahasuerus Foundation is also diverting considerable effort to their own investigation. Were all three to pool their resources they might actually stand a chance of finding you before the trial gets under way-but in a world where privacy is fatally compromised by technology, discretion becomes an instinct and secrecy a passion."
Silas was genuinely astonished by the list of people who were actively searching for him. "Damon?" he echoed suspiciously. "What's Damon got to do with this? Why on earth should the Ahasuerus Foundation be interested?"
"Damon Hart is involved because I took care to involve him," the voice replied with a casualness that was almost insulting. "The Ahasuerus Foundation is interested because I took care to interest them. I omitted to mention, of course, that Conrad Helier will also be doing his utmost to find you-but he is hardly in a position to pool his resources with anyone else."
"Conrad Helier's been dead for half a century," Silas said.
"That's not true," said the judge, with equal conviction. "Although I will admit to some slight doubt as to whether or not you know know it to be untrue. How soon was he aware, do you suppose, that you would eventually desert his cause? Did he identify you as his Judas before he went to his carefully contrived crucifixion?" it to be untrue. How soon was he aware, do you suppose, that you would eventually desert his cause? Did he identify you as his Judas before he went to his carefully contrived crucifixion?"
"I only retired from the team ten years ago," Silas said.
"Of course. The burdens of parenthood served to resensitize you to your own old age. You developed a passion for the company of the authentically young: naive flesh, naive intelligence. In a way, they're all all Conrad Helier's children, aren't they? All born from his womb-the womb he gifted to humankind after robbing them of all the wombs they already possessed. He appointed you to foster his son, but he surely considers your defection as a kind of betrayal." Conrad Helier's children, aren't they? All born from his womb-the womb he gifted to humankind after robbing them of all the wombs they already possessed. He appointed you to foster his son, but he surely considers your defection as a kind of betrayal."
Unable to help himself, Silas stared at his virtual adversary with a new intensity. He had not seen Conrad Helier for forty-six years, and his memories had faded as all memories did, but he was absolutely certain that Conrad Helier was one of the few people in the world who could come to him masked as artfully as any man could be masked and yet be recognizable.
Whoever his interrogator was, he swiftly decided, it could not possibly be Conrad Helier, or even his ghost.
"Torture can make a man say anything," Silas said, feeling that he ought to say something something to cover his fearful confusion. "Anything at all. I know well enough how utterly unused to pain I've become. I know that as soon as your nanomech armies have smashed mine to smithereens I'll be utterly helpless. I'll say whatever you want me to say-but it will all be worthless, and worse than worthless. It won't be the truth, and it won't even to cover his fearful confusion. "Anything at all. I know well enough how utterly unused to pain I've become. I know that as soon as your nanomech armies have smashed mine to smithereens I'll be utterly helpless. I'll say whatever you want me to say-but it will all be worthless, and worse than worthless. It won't be the truth, and it won't even look look like the truth. No matter how cleverly you edit your tapes, people will know that it's a fake. Anybody with half a brain will see through the charade-and even if the police don't find you while I'm still alive, they'll find you once I'm dead. This is a farce, and you know it. You can't possibly gain anything from it." like the truth. No matter how cleverly you edit your tapes, people will know that it's a fake. Anybody with half a brain will see through the charade-and even if the police don't find you while I'm still alive, they'll find you once I'm dead. This is a farce, and you know it. You can't possibly gain anything from it."
Even as he made the speech, though, Silas realized that it couldn't be as simple as that. Whatever game his captor was playing, it wasn't just a matter of extorting a confession to post on some Eliminator billboard. Damon had been brought into it, and the Ahasuerus Foundation-and Silas honestly couldn't imagine why . . . unless, perhaps, the sole purpose of the crime had been to prompt its investigation by parties sufficiently interested and sufficiently powerful to uncover real real proof of its motive-proof that would be worth far more than any tricked-up tape of a confession. . . . proof of its motive-proof that would be worth far more than any tricked-up tape of a confession. . . .
"Who are you?" he asked, unable any longer to resist the temptation, although he knew that it would be a pointless admission of weakness. "Why are you doing this?"
"I'm a judge," said the voice flatly. "I'm doing this because someone someone has to do it. If humankind is to be worthy of immortality, it ought to begin with a clean slate, don't you think? Our sins must be admitted, and expiated, if they are not to spoil our new adventure." has to do it. If humankind is to be worthy of immortality, it ought to begin with a clean slate, don't you think? Our sins must be admitted, and expiated, if they are not to spoil our new adventure."
"Who appointed you you my judge and executioner?" Silas retorted, miserably aware of the fact that he was still displaying weakness and terror, even though he had not yet been stripped of all his protective armor. my judge and executioner?" Silas retorted, miserably aware of the fact that he was still displaying weakness and terror, even though he had not yet been stripped of all his protective armor.
"The post was vacant," the judge said. "No one else seemed to be interested in taking it up."
Silas recognized the words and felt their parodic force. "Fuck off," he said, with feeling. It seemed, suddenly, to be a direly old-fashioned curse: a verbal formula he had brought with him out of Conrad Helier's ark; a spell which could not have any force at all in the modern world. The existential significance of sexual intercourse had altered since the old world died, and the dirty words connected with it had lost their warrant of obscenity. Shit Shit and its derivatives still retained their repulsive connotations, but the expletives which had once been strongest of all had lost their fashionability along with their force. Habit might preserve them awhile longer, at least in the language of centenarians like himself, but for all the effect they had one might as well make reference to God's wounds or the Prophet's beard. and its derivatives still retained their repulsive connotations, but the expletives which had once been strongest of all had lost their fashionability along with their force. Habit might preserve them awhile longer, at least in the language of centenarians like himself, but for all the effect they had one might as well make reference to God's wounds or the Prophet's beard.
"The charges laid against you are these," said the machine-enhanced voice as the lips of the caricature face moved in perfect sync. "First, that between 2095 and 2120 you conspired with Eveline Hywood, Karol Kachellek, Mary Hallam, and others, under the supervision of Conrad Helier, to cause actual bodily harm to some seven billion individuals, that actual bodily harm consisting of the irreversible disabling of their reproductive organs. Second, that you collaborated with Eveline Hywood, Karol Kachellek, Mary Hallam, and others, under the supervision of Conrad Helier, in the design, manufacture, and distribution of the agents of that actual bodily harm, namely the various virus species collectively known as meiotic disrupters or chiasmalytic transformers. You are now formally invited to make a statement in response to these charges."
"If you had any real evidence," Silas said stiffly, "you could bring the charges in a real court of law. I don't have to answer any charges brought by a caricature judge in a cartoon court."
"You've had seventy years to submit yourself to trial by a legitimately constituted court," said the judge, his mechanical voice dripping acid. "Those who prefer to evade the courts whose legitimacy they acknowledge ought not to protest too loudly when justice catches up with them. This court is the one which has found the means to bring you to trial; it is the one which will determine your fate. You will be given the opportunity to enter your defense before sentence is passed upon you."
"But you've already delivered your verdict, and I doubt that you have it in your power to determine any sentence but immediate execution-which will make you guilty of murder in the eyes of any authentic court in the world."
"Death is not such a harsh sentence for a man of your kind," opined the man behind the mask, "when one considers that you-like the vast majority of those previously condemned as unworthy of immortality-have already lived far longer than the natural human life span. One of the principles on which this court is founded is that whatever society bestows upon the individual through the medium of technology, society has every right to withdraw from those who betray their obligations to the commonweal."
"Eliminators aren't part of society. They're just an ill-assorted bunch of murderous maniacs. But you're no run-of-the-mill Eliminator, are you? You're something new, or something worse. Psychologically you're the same-in perfect harmony with the solitary spiders who get their kicks out of dumping malevolent garbage into the data stream in the hope that some other shithead will take it into his head to start blasting-but you've got an extra twist in you."
It was all bluster, but Silas took what comfort he could from its insincerity. Whoever had come to seize him had come well equipped, and however ridiculous this virtual court might be on the surface it was no joke, no merely amateur affair. Someone was taking this business very seriously-whatever the business in question really was. He had to try to figure that out, even if figuring it out couldn't save him from pain and death. If his sentence were already fixed, and if the police were unable to find him, the only meaningful thing he could do with what remained of his life was to find out who was doing this to him and why-and why now now, when it had all happened so long ago.
"You still have time to make a clean breast of it," the voice informed him, refusing to respond to his insults. "No one can save you, Dr. Arnett, except yourself. Even if your trial were to be interrupted, you would still stand condemned. We are an idea and an ideal rather than an organization, and we can neither be defeated nor frustrated. When human beings live forever, no one will be able to evade justice, because there will be all the time in the world for their sins to find them out. We really do have to be worthy worthy of immortality, Dr. Arnett. You, of all people, should understand that. This is, after all, a world which of immortality, Dr. Arnett. You, of all people, should understand that. This is, after all, a world which you you helped to design-a world which could not have come into being had you not collaborated in the careful murder of the world which came before." helped to design-a world which could not have come into being had you not collaborated in the careful murder of the world which came before."
Silas didn't want to engage in philosophical argument. He wanted to stick to matters of fact. "Will you answer me one question?" he asked sharply.
"Of course I will," the judge replied, with silky insincerity. "We have no secrets to conceal." have no secrets to conceal."
"Did Catherine set me up? Did she rig the house's systems to let your people in?" He didn't imagine that he would be able to trust the answer, but he knew that it was a question that would gnaw away at him if he didn't voice it.
"As a matter of fact," the other replied, taking obvious pleasure in the reply, "she had no idea at all that she was carrying the centipedes which insinuated themselves into your domestic systems. We used her, but she is innocent of any responsibility. If anyone betrayed you, Dr. Arnett, it was someone who knew you far better than she."
Silas hoped that he would be able to resist the lure offered by that answer, but he knew that he wouldn't. Someone Someone had set him up for this, and he had to consider everyone a candidate-at least until the time came for him to play the traitor in his turn, when his trial by ordeal began in earnest. had set him up for this, and he had to consider everyone a candidate-at least until the time came for him to play the traitor in his turn, when his trial by ordeal began in earnest.
Nine.
D.
amon stood on the quay in Kaunakakai's main harbor and watched the oceanographic research vessel Kite Kite sail smoothly toward the shore. The wind was light and her engines were silent but she was making good headway. Her sleek sails were patterned in red and yellow, shining brightly in the warm subtropical sunlight. The sun was so low in the western sky that the whole world, including the surface of the sea, seemed to be painted in shades of crimson and ocher. sail smoothly toward the shore. The wind was light and her engines were silent but she was making good headway. Her sleek sails were patterned in red and yellow, shining brightly in the warm subtropical sunlight. The sun was so low in the western sky that the whole world, including the surface of the sea, seemed to be painted in shades of crimson and ocher.
Karol Kachellek didn't come up to the deck until the boat was coming about, carefully shedding speed so that she could drift to the quay under the gentle tutelage of her steersman. Kachellek saw Damon waiting but he didn't wave a greeting-and he took care to keep his unwelcome visitor waiting even longer while he supervised the unloading of a series of cases which presumably held samples or specimens.
Two battered trucks with low-grade organic engines had already limped down to the quayside to pick up whatever the boat had brought in. Kachellek ostentatiously helped the brightly clad laborers load the cases onto the trucks. He was the kind of man who took pride in always doing his fair share of whatever labor needed to be done.
Eventually, though, Karol had no alternative but to condescend to come to his foster son and offer his hand to be shaken. Damon took the hand readily enough and tried as best he could to import some real enthusiasm into the gesture. Karol Kachellek had always been distant; Silas Arnett had been the real foster father of the group to whose care Damon had been delivered in accordance with his father's will, just as poor Mary Hallam had been the real foster mother. If Silas was gone forever, leaving Damon no living parents except Karol and Eveline, then he had probably left it too late to restore any meaningful family relationships.
"This isn't a good time for visiting, Damon," Karol said. "We're very busy." At least he had the grace to look slightly guilty as he said it. He raised a hand to smooth back his unruly blond hair. "Let's walk along the shore while the light lasts," he went on awkwardly. "It'll be some time before the mud samples are ready for examination, and there won't be any more coming in today. Things might be easier in three or four weeks, if I can get more staff, but until then. . . ."
"You're very busy," Damon finished for him. "You're not worried, then, by the news?"
"I haven't time to waste in worrying about Silas. I'm concerned for him, of course, but there's nothing I can do to help and I don't feel that I'm under any obligation to fret or to mourn. I understand that you're bound to think of us as a pair, but he and I were never close."
"You worked together for more than eighty years," Damon pointed out, falling into step as the blond man settled into his long and economical stride.
"We certainly did," agreed the blond man, with a conspicuous lack of enthusiasm. "When you're my age you'll understand that close company can breed antipathy as easily as friendship, and that the passage of time smothers either with insulating layers of habit and indifference."
"I'm afraid I haven't formed those insulating layers yet," Damon said. "You're not worried about yourself either, then? If the Eliminators took Silas they might come after you next."
"Same thing-no time to waste. If we let Eliminators and their kin drive us to trepidation, they've won. I can't see why Interpol is so excited about a stupid message cooked up by some sick mind. It should be ignored, treated with the contempt it deserves. Even to acknowledge its existence is an encouragement to further idiocies of the same kind." While he talked Karol's stride echoed his sermon in becoming more positive and purposeful, but Damon had no difficulty keeping up. Damon remembered that Karol always always acted as if he had an end firmly in mind and no time to spare in getting there-it was sometimes difficult to believe that he was a hundred and twenty-two years old. Perhaps, Damon thought, he had to maintain his sense of purpose at a high pitch lest he lose it completely-as Silas seemed to have lost his once Damon had flown the nest. acted as if he had an end firmly in mind and no time to spare in getting there-it was sometimes difficult to believe that he was a hundred and twenty-two years old. Perhaps, Damon thought, he had to maintain his sense of purpose at a high pitch lest he lose it completely-as Silas seemed to have lost his once Damon had flown the nest.
They quickly passed beyond the limits of the harbor and headed toward the outskirts of the port, with the red orb of the setting sun almost directly ahead of them.
Mauna Loa was visible in the distance, looming over the precipitous landscape, but the town itself was oddly and uncomfortably reminiscent of the parts of Los Angeles where Damon had spent the greater part of his adolescence. Molokai had been one of numerous bolt-holes whose inhabitants had successfully imposed quarantine during the Second Plague War, but when it had tried to repeat the trick in the Crisis it had failed. The new pestilence had arrived here as surely as it had arrived everywhere else. Artificial wombs had been imported on the scale which the islanders could afford, but the population of the whole chain had been dwindling ever since. The internal technologies which guaranteed longevity to those who could afford them would have to become even cheaper before that trend went into reverse, unless there was a sudden saving influx of immigrants. In the meantime, that part of the port which remained alive and active was surrounded by a ragged halo of concrete wastelands.
Because there was so little to see on the landward side save for the lingering legacy of human profligacy, Damon looked out to sea while he walked on Karol Kachellek's right-hand side. The ocean gave the impression of having always been the way it was: huge and serene. Where its waves lapped the shore they created their own dominion, shaping the sandy strand and discarding their own litter of wrack and rot-misshapen wood. He could just make out the shore of Lanai on the horizon, on the far side of the Kaiohi Channel.
"Why did you come out here, Damon?" Karol asked. "Are you you scared of the Eliminators?" scared of the Eliminators?"
"Should I be?" Damon countered-but his fosterer had no intention of rising to that one. "You wouldn't talk to me on the phone," Damon said after a pause. "Eveline hasn't replied in any way at all-as if it would somehow pollute her glorious isolation in the wilderness of space even to tap out a few words on a keyplate."
"She's working. She gets very engrossed, and this is a difficult time for her. She'll get back to you in her own time."
"Sure. Unfortunately, the Eliminators seem to be keeping to their own timetable. Would it inconvenience her that much to take my call while Silas may still be alive?"
"She'll talk to you," Karol assured him. "I would have too, when I could find the time-no matter how much I hate that fancy VE you've got hooked up to your phone."
"If you'd taken the call," Damon pointed out, "we could have met in your VE instead of mine. That's not not one of my designs. Even if you'd called me, we could have fixed that at a keystroke." one of my designs. Even if you'd called me, we could have fixed that at a keystroke."
VEs weren't really an issue, and Karol didn't press the point. "Look, Damon," he said, "the long and the short of it is that I didn't call you back because I simply don't have anything to tell you. Your father's dead. He wasn't an enemy of mankind. I have no idea why Eliminators or anyone else should want to kidnap or murder Silas. Eveline would say exactly the same-and she probably hasn't called you because she doesn't see any real need. I think you should let the police take care of this. I don't think it serves any useful purpose for you to start stirring things up."
"Am I stirring things up?" Damon asked. "It's just a social visit."
"I'm not talking about your coming here. I'm talking about your unsubtle friend Madoc Tamlin and that stupid note you took to the Ahasuerus Foundation. What on earth possessed you to do something like that?"
Damon was startled by the news that Karol knew about his meeting with Rachel Trehaine, and even more startled by the blond man's seeming assumption that he had produced the note himself-but he took due note of the fact that Karol knew more about what was going on than his professed indifference had suggested. Was it possible, he wondered, that Karol and Eveline were trying to protect protect him? Were they refusing to talk to him because they were trying to keep him out of this weird affair? Karol had never been entirely at ease with him, so it was difficult for Damon to judge whether the blond man was any more unsettled than usual, but there was something about his manner which smacked of uncomfortable dishonesty. him? Were they refusing to talk to him because they were trying to keep him out of this weird affair? Karol had never been entirely at ease with him, so it was difficult for Damon to judge whether the blond man was any more unsettled than usual, but there was something about his manner which smacked of uncomfortable dishonesty.
I must be careful of seeing what I want to see, Damon thought. I must be careful of wanting to find a juicy mystery, or evidence that my paternal idol had feet of tawdry clay.
"Has Ahasuerus contacted you about the note?" he asked. "You weren't named in it-only Eveline."
"Eveline and I don't have any secrets from one another."
Damon wondered whether that meant that Ahasuerus had contacted Eveline and that Eveline had contacted Karol. "Don't you feel the same way about Eveline as you do about Silas?" he asked. "Isn't she just someone you worked with for so long that habit has bound up every last vestige of feeling? Why shouldn't you have secrets from one another?"
"I'm still still working with her," Karol replied, again choosing to evade the real question. working with her," Karol replied, again choosing to evade the real question.
"Not directly. She's off-planet, in L-Five."
"Modern communications make it easy enough to work in close association with people anywhere in the solar system. We're involved with the same problems, constantly exchanging information. In spite of the hundreds of thousands of miles that lie between us, Eveline and I are close in a way that Silas and I never were. We're in harmony, dedicated to a common cause."
"A common cause which I deserted," Damon said, taking up the apparent thread of the argument, "in spite of all the grand plans which Conrad Helier had for me. Is that that why you and Eveline are trying to freeze me out of this? Is that why you resent my trying to why you and Eveline are trying to freeze me out of this? Is that why you resent my trying to stir things up? stir things up?"
"I'm trying to do what your father would have wanted," Karol told him awkwardly.
"He's dead, Karol. In any case, you're not him him. You're your own man now. You and I are perfectly free to build a relationship of our own. Silas could see that-Mary too."
"Fostering you was a job your father asked me to do," Karol retorted bluntly. "I'd have continued doing it, if there had been anything more I could do. I will will continue, if there's anything I can do in future-but you can't expect me to forget that what continue, if there's anything I can do in future-but you can't expect me to forget that what you you wanted was to get away, to abandon everything your father tried to pass on to you in order to run wild. You ran away from us, Damon, and changed your name; you declared yourself irrelevant to our concerns. Maybe it's best if you stick to that course and let us stick to ours. I don't know why you're so interested in this Eliminator stuff, but I really do think it's best if you let it alone." wanted was to get away, to abandon everything your father tried to pass on to you in order to run wild. You ran away from us, Damon, and changed your name; you declared yourself irrelevant to our concerns. Maybe it's best if you stick to that course and let us stick to ours. I don't know why you're so interested in this Eliminator stuff, but I really do think it's best if you let it alone."
Damon didn't want to become sidetracked into discussions of his irresponsible adolescence, or his not-entirely-respectable present. "Why should anyone accuse Conrad Helier of being an enemy of mankind?" he asked bluntly.
"He's dead, Damon," Karol said softly. "Nobody can hurt him, whatever lies they make up."
"They can hurt you and Eveline. Proofs will follow, they say. Whatever they're planning to say about Conrad Helier will reflect on you too-and would even if he were just another colleague you happened to work with once upon a time, to whose fate you were now indifferent."
"Conrad never did anything that I would be ashamed of," Karol said, his voice becoming even softer.
Damon let a second or two go by for dramatic effect and then said: "What if he were were alive, Karol?" alive, Karol?"
The blond man had sufficient sense of drama to match Damon's pregnant pause before saying: "If he were, he'd be able to work on the problem which faces us just now. That would be good. He's present in spirit, of course, in every logical move I make, every hypothesis I frame, and every experiment I design. He made me what I am, just as he made the whole world what it is. You and I are both his heirs, and we'll never be anything else, however hard we try to avoid the consequences of that fact." He tried to fix Damon with a stern gaze, but stern gazes weren't his forte.
The blond man paused before a rocky outcrop which was blocking their path, and knelt down as if to duck any further questions. Miming intense concentration, he scanned the tideline which ran along the wave-smoothed rock seven or eight centimeters above the ground. It was a performance far more suited to his natural inclinations than stern fatherly concern.
The wrack which clung to the rock was slowly drying out in the sun, but the incoming tide would return before it was desiccated. In the meantime, the limp tresses provided shelter for tiny crabs and whelks. Where the curtains of weed were drawn slightly apart barnacles had glued themselves to the stony faces and sea anemones nestled in crevices like blobs of purple jelly. The barer rock above the tide line was speckled with colored patches of lichen and tarry streaks which might-so far as Damon could tell-have been anything at all.
Karol took a penknife from his pocket and scraped some of the tarry stuff from the rock into the palm of his hand, inspecting it carefully. Eventually, he tipped it into Damon's hand and said: "That's far more important than all this nonsense about Eliminators." far more important than all this nonsense about Eliminators."