Saint Vidicon to the Rescue

by Christopher Stasheff

  My alarm went off at two and Gadget’s call came at two-fifteen. I hit the ACCEPT button, ready to chew back at the boss because I was nowhere near late yet—but it was Gadget, bright-eyed and breathless. “Nick, you’ll never guess! The most wonderful thing happened today!”

  It was the glow in the eyes that made me catch my breath—no, the way excitement spread the glow to her whole face. “Tell me, tell me!”

  She did.

  I stared.

  “Nick, isn’t that wonderful?”

  “Absolutely fantastic,” I said, staring back at her, but I wasn’t talking about Mather.

  The window opened only a few minutes after it had closed, and St. Genesius leaned out with a smile. “These Americans have let their laws develop in most amusing ways, Father Vidicon.”

  “Have they really?” the priest asked. “I’m afraid I haven’t paid much attention to the law, except to make sure I don’t break it.”

  “You’re hardly alone,” St. Genesius said with some irony. “Still, I’m going to need some explanation about this carburetor the lawyers will be arguing over. I have the facts, but I don’t understand why they’re a cause for debate. Explain why the ability to burn alcohol troubles them.”

  “Ah, well—that’s more a matter of money than of mechanics,” Father Vidicon said, and explained.

  When he was done, the saint smiled broadly. “Now I know what to tell the lawyers!”

  Chapter 7

  “The court reminds counsel that this is only a preliminary hearing to discover if there is enough evidence to warrant sending this case to the grand jury,” the judge said. The fact that we were in his chambers instead of a courtroom should have been enough reminder of that, but it never hurt to make sure.

  “Your Honor,” Charlotte said, “we move to dismiss.”

  The judge raised an eyebrow. “Really, Ms. Russe? On what grounds?”

  “The law as it is written is unconstitutional, Your Honor. It operates in restraint of trade and restricts the development of a system that may well prove vital to national welfare.”

  “An interesting notion,” the judge said drily, “and one we’ll let the appellate court deal with once this case is resolved. Council for the prosecution?”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” The bright young assistant district attorney stood up; surely the half dozen gray-haired, hard-faced lawyers behind her were only there as observers. I imagined them all wearing name tags that said, PROPERTY OF AMALGAMATED OIL. “May it please the court,” the young lawyer said, “it’s clear the defendants have willfully broken the law by planning to manufacture automobiles that will burn pure alcohol.” She went on to cite the brand-new law, introduced a recording of the press demonstration with Gadget explaining that the car with her prototype carburetor would run on ethanol, then watching the car roar away from the curb. The lawyer stopped the videotape with a triumphant flourish of her remote, and said, “These statements to the press must surely be as good as a confession, Your Honor.”

  The judge managed to keep a straight face. There wasn’t any jury, it being only a hearing.

  Mather’s lead attorney stepped out. “But the law specifies pure ethanol, and the fuel Mr. Smith developed for Ms. Farnum’s carburetor isn’t pure. He has added chemicals that retard combustion.”

  “Nonsense!” the prosecutor said with just the right amount of indignity. “The additives constitute less than one percent of the fuel. It’s still virtually pure.”

  “Virtual isn’t pure,” Mather’s lawyer retorted. “The law stipulates ethanol that is a hundred percent pure. The language doesn’t admit of the slightest adulteration.”

  The judge nodded at the prosecutor, beginning to look as though he was enjoying the session.

  “Less than one percent of additive surely still qualifies as pure under the intention of the law,” the prosecutor maintained, “and the additive retarding the combustion rate to avoid dieseling certainly makes it significant.”

  “The additives were necessary to comply with the law,” Mather’s lawyer answered.

  “Ah, but the second additive wasn’t necessary until Mr. Smith had put in his first additive, which was there solely to make the ethanol undrinkable,” the prosecutor maintained, “a clear attempt to circumvent the law.”

  “But it was that additive that made the fuel prone to dieseling,” the defense countered, “which made it clearly an improvement in the fuel.” She started to say something more, but hesitated at an urge that pressed suddenly into awareness at the back of her mind—almost as though a little voice was saying, That’s enough. Let her bring up intention.

  Sure enough, the prosecutor said, “But the purpose of that first additive wasn’t to improve the fuel, Your Honor. It was there to make the fuel undrinkable, which clearly showed awareness of the intent of the law.”

  Charlotte opened her mouth with an indignant retort, but it seemed as though her tongue wouldn’t move—and the little voice was urging caution again.

  When Charlotte didn’t jump in with a protest, the judge turned to her with a lifted eyebrow. “Counselor?”

  “Yes, Your Honor?”

  “No response on the matter of intention?”

  Charlotte shrugged. ”None needed, Your Honor. If the intent of the law was to prevent the sale of cheap, pure ethanol in order to make sure it wouldn’t encourage alcoholism, then surely my client’s adding a chemical that would make the fuel disgusting in taste, and cause regurgitation, shows a willingness”—and, at a sudden inspiration—“even a zeal to comply with the law.”

  “Ridiculous!” the prosecution exploded. “Your Honor, if the first additive made the fuel burn so hot that it induced dieseling, clearly the intent was to make it an even more effective fuel!”

  The judge nodded at Charlotte, very obviously enjoying things now.

  “The dieseling was only a side effect of making the ethanol impure and undrinkable,” Charlotte maintained. It was nice to be able to state the simple truth for a change.

  “Nonsense!” the prosecutor cried. “If the fuel was more effective, why add the second chemical to make it less effective?”

  “To restore the original purpose of the carburetor,” Charlotte said reasonably, “which was to make the fuel of benefit to existing engines in passenger cars with the changing of only that one part.”

  “Well, if they really wanted ordinary consumers to be running their cars on ethanol, why did they come up with an additive that made it work for commercial diesel engines?” the prosecutor demanded.

  This time it wasn’t a little voice so much as a temptation, and Charlotte gave in with glee. “To make it undrinkable and unpure, so it would comply with the law!”

  The prosecutor started an angry retort, but the judge banged his gavel. “Enough! When the argument starts going in circles, we’ve heard everything that’s going to make any difference. The court finds in favor of the defendant and rules that no law has been broken, nor was intended to be broken. The statute in question says nothing about any carburetor, modified or otherwise. It only prohibits the sale of pure ethanol as a fuel, and the defense has established to the court’s satisfaction that the fuel in question is no longer pure. Besides, the law is in restraint of trade anyway and restricts the development of a system that may well prove vital to national welfare. Case dismissed!”

  He banged the gavel. Gadget leaped up and hugged Charlotte, and I rose, grinning, to watch them. I still wasn’t ready for it when Gadget whirled and hugged me, but I adapted.

  And in the moist mauve corridor, Saint Genesius reached out through his hyperspatial window to shake Father Vidicon’s hand.

  “Masterful prompting!” the priest exulted.

  “Who should know that skill better than an actor?” the saint returned, then waved as his window closed.

  Father Vidicon turned to stride on down the throat of Hell, swelling with the delight of the latest victory, even if it hadn’t really been his.

  Two days b
efore Christmas, Gadget and Charlotte sat at the bar clinking glasses with me. “To the wisdom of the court!” I toasted.

  “And the good sense of a level-headed judge!” Charlotte sipped, then asked, “So how many millions are you going to insist on banking before you quit your night job, Nick?”

  All that slowed the growth of the alcohol car was the speed with which the HOOCH stations could be built. Private enterprise took up the slack in its usual way—by thousands of filling stations converting at least one of their gasoline pumps to alcohol. After all, they’d already added high-voltage wiring for the recharging stations for the electric cars of forgetful owners, and methane cylinders for the other new kind of car on the market. Three years later, the filling stations had one gas pump at most, and the only people who used it were antique car collectors. Gadget and I were both rich from a flood of royalty money, and from our sugar company stocks soaring as the commodity market did booming business in futures of sugarcane, sugar beets, and every kind of grain that could be turned into ethanol. Detroit retooled very quickly, and in five years had cut out production of gasoline automobiles completely. When the electricity companies switched to ethanol too, petroleum sales dropped to only plastics manufacturers. Not that the big oil companies were hurting, of course—the minute the judge banged his gavel, they had started investing in farmland and building stills the size of office buildings. Rumor had it that the plastics companies were developing materials that could be made from plant fiber, and that Middle East terrorists were targeting their research laboratories.

  All of which was pretty heady stuff for the two brand-new billionaires who clinked glasses at the Coq d’Or one night. Gadget was stunning in a hundred-dollar coiffure and a Paris gown. I only looked half as good in my tuxedo.

  “To United Auto Parts and Biochemicals,” she said.

  “And to many contracts from Detroit,” I seconded, and we sipped. I let the wine roll back against my palate and wondered if I would ever be able to tell the difference between this French vintage and the box of wine in my refrigerator.

  “May our companies’ merger expand all our markets,” Gadget said with a smile.

  “To conglomeration,” I said, “as long as it’s ours.” Then I quieted, gazing into her eyes as I let my fingers stroke the bowl of my glass and wondered if I dared.

  Gadget must have caught some hint of my intentions, because she only managed a half laugh before she swallowed nervously, never taking her eyes from mine. “What, Nick?” Her voice was short on breath.

  Do or die. “I was thinking about another merger,” I said.

  “Really?” Gadget didn’t sound as though it was any surprize. “What kind?”

  “Between people,” I said, “you and me. Would you run screaming if I proposed?”

  Gadget reached out to catch my hand with warm fingers, and her smile was warmer still. “I’ll scream if you don’t.”

  But I didn’t, not for a few minutes, anyway. I was too busy gazing into her eyes. Made sense—they were all I could see.

  Tony envied Nick, of course, envied him like fury—but as long as he was hovering around them as a disembodied presence, he could share Nick’s romance vicariously. After all, they were a lot alike—engineers, just in different fields—except that Nick had lucked into meeting Gadget. It was enough to make Tony think he should take up bartending, too.

  Then the two young lovers seemed to grow smaller, the people at the tables around them began to become visible, and Tony realized that they were moving away. No, he was moving away—or his viewpoint was. The scene he was watching began to redden, then faded into the maroon that was becoming all too familiar. He looked up to see St. Vidicon watching him with a broad smile. “Success?”

  “Double,” Tony said. “Their ethanol car is legal, the world’s dwindling oil supplies are safe, and they’re about to become engaged.”

  “Wonderful.” The smile turned into a grin. “I love happy endings.”

  “Then how about giving me one?” Tony asked.

  “Ah! That, I fear, is up to you and Sandy,” the saint said. “I cannot guarantee the conclusion we both wish—but I can promise that, long though the day may be, you’ll have more than enough energy to take Sandy dancing.”

  “But I don’t know how.”

  “Oh, we can take care of that, too,” St. Vidicon said, amused.

  “Oh, good! An e-mail from Marge.” Liza clicked on the link. “Wonder why she didn’t have a subject, though?”

  “No subject?” From the next desk, April looked up with foreboding.

  “Yeah, she’s kinda scatterbrained.” Liza frowned at the screen. “That’s funny, there’s no message . . . oh, an attachment!” She clicked on the icon just as April lunged around the partition and yanked the network connector out of Liza’s computer. “Hey, what did you do that for?” Liza protested. “You made my screen turn blue!”

  “It wasn’t being unplugged that gave you the Blue Screen of Death,” April said grimly, “it was the virus in that attachment! Hope you didn’t have anything important on your hard drive, Liza.”

  Liza stared, appalled. Then she asked, “Unplugging me caused it to wipe my hard drive?”

  “No, unplugging it kept the virus from infecting our whole network.” April picked up the phone. “Now we have to kill that virus before we dare plug you back in—and who knows? It may be cheaper to buy you a new terminal.”

  Liza blanched and prayed silently, St. Vidicon, save me from Finagle!

  April punched buttons. “Hello, Business Systems Solutions? We have a virus . . .”

  Only two more days till his date with Sandy. On the other hand, there were a whole two days left before he could see Sandy again! Tony went to work, hoping for distraction. Maybe the whole Internet would crash? That could distract him for a few hours.

  He was idling through his e-mail thinking of Sandy when Harve stuck his head around the partition. “Pack up your old kit bag, kiddo!”

  “Why?” Tony looked up, interested. “And isn’t that supposed to be, ‘Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag’?”

  “No, the trouble’s waiting for you: infected computer, but a savvy office worker managed to unplug it from the network before it spread—we hope.”

  “On my way!” Tony grabbed his briefcase and ran, pulse pounding with the delight of distraction. This ought to make the time pass a little quicker.

  Harve handed him a slip of paper as he passed. “Monahan Securities. Here’s the address.”

  Tony sat down at Liza’s computer, called up the operating system’s code, and ran his bug-detector. The screen sat immobile, but Tony knew the routine and waited.

  Suddenly the code jumped, and Tony found himself staring at a highlighted section—one that seemed to be growing, digit by digit, even as he watched. He contemplated the whole screen, trying line by line to understand the context and figure out the gist of the anomaly. As his concentration grew, the code seemed to expand from the screen until it surrounded him completely.

  It was terrifying at first, but Tony was getting used to it—the sensation of falling, this time into the screen. The digits seemed to grow until they were taller than he, and he found himself wandering through a forest of ones and zeros. He picked his way through a huge loop, trying to find the section of code that had still been growing the last he had seen of it.

  There it was, only the ones and zeros had been compressed into a tubular shape—tubular and writhing. With horror, Tony found himself staring at a worm.

  An orifice opened at one end, and the worm swallowed healthy digits by the dozens—but its farther end excreted clumps of distorted code. Tony’s gaze snapped to the garbage output; he was tempted to try to puzzle it out, but he already knew what it did—and the worm was coursing toward him. It reared, and the mouth at its front was rimmed with inward-pointing fangs: ones with points.

  “St. Vidicon defend me!” Tony cried, and a clanging and clashing of metal answered him. Looking down, h
e was amazed to see he was encased in steel—armor, and as he lifted his head, a visor fell down to protect his eyes.

  The worm struck; he lifted an arm to ward it off—and saw his own face reflected in the back of a shield. It rang like a gong, and the shock almost knocked Tony off his feet; he realized the worm had struck the shield. He raised his right hand to try to separate the ones and zeros that made up its body—and found he was holding a sword.

  The worm struck again, but Tony pivoted, amazed at the lightness of his armor. The worm roared wrath and turned about to strike once more. Tony lifted his blade, crying, “Aroint thee, worm!” Then he stared, amazed at the medieval words that had leaped from his lips.

  The worm pounced, gobbling them up, then froze. Tony frowned, not understanding—but he did realize his words had stalled the creature. He started talking, babbling, saying whatever came to mind. “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in this vicious worm from equation to equation, to the last byte of recorded code!”

  The worm gobbled up the syllables as they fell.

  Tony pressed on. “And all our technology serves but to enable fools to greater folly.”

  The worm froze, and Tony knew his words, and their lack of logic, were roiling within its innards. “Out, out, coded creature!”

  The worm convulsed, then began to thrash about in aimless pain, toppling digits all about it.

  “Thou art but a crawling shadow,” Tony called, “a poor program that frets and hangs blue curtains upon the screen and then—is seen no more!” So saying, he fell upon the worm, chopping it into writhing blocks of digits, then prying apart the bytes to bits. In a few minutes, the worm had ceased to exist and was only a litter of ones and zeros lying in heaps about Tony.

  “As goes the bit, so goes the byte.” Tony sighed, sheathing his sword. Good or bad, it had been an amazing construct. Taking off his helmet and pulling off his gauntlets, Tony knelt to begin trying to reorder the digits into something harmless but useful—and found the armor evaporating, the shield and sword subliming into mist. He looked upward with a grateful smile. “Thanks, St. Vidicon.” Then he got back to work.