World Enough (And Time)

by Edmund Jorgensen

  “Oh,” he said, sitting up on the sofa. “Oh my God.”

  He stumbled to his feet and, leaning on the walls and battling the urge to vomit to a heroic stalemate, made his way to the cafeteria.

  * * *

  The sight that greeted Jeremiah there offered such aid and comfort to the vomitous urges that they nearly broke the line of Jeremiah’s defenses. The cafeteria was hardly a romantic spot—with its drab, scrubbed walls and fixed tables and bad lighting—but if you could have taken those two figures and snipped them from their corner table, they would have pasted seamlessly into that Van Gogh café Jeremiah had admired on many a Detroit Bohemian’s walls. How she smoothed her hair behind her ear. The way he tried to sit so casually, which only accentuated the military posture beneath his blue plainclothes detective suit. Yes, there could be no doubt that Jeremiah was witnessing the first date of Katherine Mornay and John Battle—none other than The Specimen himself.

  Jeremiah stood for a moment, propping himself up in the doorway, unable to decide on a course of action. He was leaning towards closing his eyes and letting the room spins fling him away by centrifugal force into the far reaches of the universe, when Katherine happened to toss her head back to laugh and caught sight of him. Jeremiah couldn’t hear the exact words she used to ask The Specimen to excuse her, or the turn of phrase with which he told her of course, to take her time, but the glares they both gave him while she was en route were not ambiguous. The Specimen even cracked his knuckles.

  “Jeremiah,” said Katherine, in a tone that skipped over accusation and trial to land directly on verdict, “what are you doing here?”

  “Boyle was murdered,” he said. Actually, in the strictest phonic terms what he said was closer to “Bull wash murd red,” but the earnest accents of the sentence got his point across—Katherine’s eyes widened and she uncrossed her arms.

  “Where did you hear this?”

  Jeremiah shook his head and then pointed to it, still shaking. The shaking sharpened him a little but also rallied the vomitous army.

  “No, I figured it out. Boyle wouldn’t commit suicide. He wanted to outlive his ex-wife—to piss on her grave.”

  “Jeremiah,” said Katherine.

  “There’s more. He drank pesticide. Do you remember in the storeroom? What was right next to the wood glue—or the glue for wood? Where the guy who came in after us was rooting around? Pesticide. We have to tell someone. There’s a murderer on the ship.”

  “How do you know the guy wasn’t Boyle getting the pesticide himself?” said Katherine.

  “No,” Jeremiah said, shaking his entire torso this time, achieving a good 80% of the emphasis with only 20% of the nausea. “That wasn’t Boyle.”

  “You’re sure you can be sure about that?”

  “Sure.”

  “And this sudden, urgent game of detective, which was so important that you had to find and tell me about it right away, has nothing to do with the fact that you’re drunk and I’m on a date?”

  “So it is a date,” Jeremiah said. “With The Specimen.” In his condition he hadn’t been sporting much of a crest, but whatever crest he did have fell, and fell hard.

  “Go back to the room,” said Katherine, in that stern sweet tone that bartenders use with customers and mothers with sons. “Drink some water. Sleep it off. We’ll chat later.”

  11

  El Nombre de la Diabla

  Monday (6 days until arrival)

  “Later” turned out to be the next morning, when Katherine emerged from her room just as Jeremiah was emerging from roughly 20 hours of alcohol-induced stupor.

  “Good morning, sunshine,” she said.

  “Kill me,” Jeremiah answered politely.

  “That’s bad vodka for you.”

  “I’m sorry about yesterday—tracking you down in the cafeteria and all during your breakfast date. I’m not remembering that wrong? You did say it was a date?”

  “I did.”

  “And I suppose I’m not allowed to list all the reasons—even though he’s taller, and better looking, and presumably not destitute—that I think you should be having a breakfast date with me, instead?”

  “You are not.”

  “Am I at least allowed to be a little jealous?” Jeremiah asked.

  Instead of answering right away, Katherine studied him for a moment—critically, Jeremiah felt, but not without the slightest sense of questions still unresolved.

  “All right,” she said at last. “You can be a little jealous. I’m headed to the cafeteria for breakfast.”

  She did not move immediately to leave.

  “Do you mean I can join you?” asked Jeremiah.

  “Have you recovered enough to eat something?”

  Jeremiah could not imagine a level of nausea which would have prevented him from answering in the affirmative.

  * * *

  “Speaking of mysteries,” said Katherine as they walked together to the cafeteria. They had not been speaking of anything, mysteries included.

  Jeremiah groaned and pushed his palms into his temples.

  “No, no, no—I was just starting to feel a little better.”

  “I thought about it yesterday, and you might be on to something. Boyle seemed crazy, but not suicidal—and he was definitely driven to survive long enough to—as you put it so eloquently yesterday—”

  “No, no, no,” moaned Jeremiah.

  “‘Pish on his wifesh gravesh.’ I’m done, you can uncover your ears. Actually, one more thing: I had never heard anyone manage to slur a ‘V’ until yesterday. Ok, now I’m done. So the question becomes, why would anyone murder Boyle?”

  “I can’t tell if you’re joking,” Jeremiah said, taking a plate and silverware and slipping into line behind Katherine.

  “Neither can I. But pretend that we were playing detective. What might the motive be for killing Boyle?”

  “The usual: jealousy, passion, credit, revenge.”

  “I can’t imagine anyone being jealous of poor Boyle.”

  “Agreed. Did you see this? There’s actually ham in the veggie omelet.”

  “I’m sorry,” said the miserable Canadian server.

  “To be fair, it’s greener than some of the vegetables,” Katherine said. “Passion, then?”

  “From whom, a scorned octogenarian? Credit?”

  “From what I hear Boyle hit the lottery and then had to split it with his ex-wife—which made him practically a pauper compared to our other guests. Present company excluded,” added Katherine.

  “Thanks very much. But that’s true—the Chapins probably spend more than his net worth on toilet paper for their vacation houses. What if it wasn’t a guest who was after his credit, though? It could be one of you shady below-stairs types.”

  “One of us shady below-stairs types. But how would we get our hands on the credit? Everything has got to be back on Earth and locked up in escrow or trusts or wherever rich people’s credit goes when they die.”

  “True,” said Jeremiah. “It’s probably harder to get at now that he’s dead.”

  “Which leaves revenge.”

  Jeremiah considered this as they sat down together.

  “Revenge for what?” he said. “I mean, I can imagine plenty of petty disagreements breeding over two years stuck in a tin can hurtling through the stars together. But something worth killing over? Especially a week from home?”

  They sat for a moment, silently picking around the ham in their veggie omelets. Jeremiah could feel the awkward intimacy occasioned by his mention of the stars, as if their lighthearted banter, like an invisible chaperone, had stood up and excused itself, leaving them alone to recall the moment in the storeroom.

  “I guess we’re not very good detectives,” said Katherine finally. “We can’t even come up with a motive.”

  “Or maybe we’re excellent detectives, and we’ve just ruled out everything but suicide.”

  “Anyway, I’ve got to get going. I’ve got laundry to do bef
ore I work lunch.”

  “I guess I’ll see you tonight, then?”

  “I guess you might,” said Katherine.

  * * *

  The quickest path from the cafeteria to the office ran through a narrow stretch of hallway. Two lovers could have passed abreast here, while two friends—even best friends—would have resorted to “after you.” Coincidentally this same stretch of hallway felt damp and subterranean, and was unusually dark: several of the overhead lights had gone out, and one flickered. It reminded Jeremiah of a particular corner back in Detroit, where he had once escaped being mugged only because a still more desperate individual had started to mug the man who was mugging Jeremiah. The memory was not a happy one.

  But at the moment, Jeremiah would have seriously considered changing places with his younger about-to-be-mugged self. For standing right in the middle of the hallway, his white coat lit intermittently by the flickering light above, was the broodingly intense Canadian doctor who had cornered Jeremiah in the cafeteria yesterday. Jeremiah was reasonably sure the doctor didn’t intend to mug him, but he was uneager to discover what other broodingly intense activities the young man might have planned.

  “Pardon me,” said Jeremiah.

  The young man snorted, as if rather than requesting passage, Jeremiah had been begging absolution for a crime so heinous there could be none.

  When Jeremiah moved to the right, the young man stepped to the left—meaning his own left, which was Jeremiah’s right. When Jeremiah tried moving to the left, the young man drifted to his right. After the third such shift, Jeremiah began to suspect that these movements were more than mere coincidence.

  “Are you going to let me through?” asked Jeremiah.

  The young man said nothing.

  It was nearly nine, and if he turned and went around the long way, Jeremiah would arrive late at the office. But after a few more cha-cha-chas to the right and left he decided that discretion was the better part of punctuality and turned around.

  He could not have sworn to it, but as he retreated Jeremiah thought he heard the young man say something under his breath—what, he could not make out, and he did not feel like remaining to beg clarification.

  * * *

  When Jeremiah arrived at the office, he found Mr. Wendstrom waiting outside in the hallway, pacing and glowering.

  “You’re late,” he said to Jeremiah. “And where were you yesterday?” He followed Jeremiah inside. “I came by for your status report and Reynolds was back on the desk.”

  Jeremiah did not care for Mr. Wendstrom’s tone, but he was gratified to see that he had been conditioned, even when so exercised, to take a ticket.

  “Now serving number … ONE.”

  “Mr. Reynolds gave me the day off,” said Jeremiah, “after what happened to Mr. Boyle.”

  Mr. Wendstrom began to say something, and bit his tongue. He seemed caught between a reluctance to speak ill of the dead and a duty to inform Jeremiah that death—someone else’s or even one’s own—was no excuse for not being a winner. Finally the charitable impulse carried the day.

  “All right,” he said, “you can give your status report now.”

  Mr. Wendstrom sat down in the guest chair and folded his hands over his knee expectantly.

  “I don’t have anything to report,” said Jeremiah.

  “No sightings? Near misses? Clues?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “Where have you looked?”

  “Well—everywhere.”

  “I don’t like it when people lie to me, Jeremiah.”

  “I’m not lying to you, Mr. Wendstrom.”

  “Carolus the Bold is somewhere. Therefore, if you had actually looked everywhere, then you would have found him. Therefore, you are lying to me.”

  “I’ve looked everywhere that I’ve been.”

  “You don’t have a system?” said Mr. Wendstrom.

  “Not in the most systematic sense of the word.”

  Mr. Wendstrom could take no more. Instead of biting his tongue, he stood up with a roar and pounded the desk with his fist.

  “You need a system, Jeremiah. You need quadrants, grids, and search patterns. Can you comprehend the level of intellect you’re up against here? This is not some idiotic poodle you’ll find prancing around in front of the bathroom mirror, yapping at his own reflection. The southern blood-throated iguana has evolved over millions of years to escape, evade, and out-think the fearsome predators of the jungle—birds of prey and feral, cunning beasts. Re-capturing such a creature—even one of average intelligence—requires diligence, patience, and above all systematic thinking. And Carolus the Bold is anything but average. If Carolus were looking for you, he would have a system—believe me.”

  “I believe you,” said Jeremiah.

  Mr. Wendstrom took a moment to tuck in his shirt, which had come loose during this impassioned delivery, and to catch his breath.

  “I’m not yelling at you,” he yelled, “and I’m not angry, because I know that this is your first time dealing with an adversary this intelligent. I believe that you want to be a winner. But I can’t spend all my time holding your hand. So by tomorrow morning’s status report I expect a plan, supported by research and evidence, with extensive notes on how you intend to put that plan into action. If I don’t get it, my general level of satisfaction with the service on this ship is going to drop sharply. He’s all yours.”

  This last was directed at Mr. Moakley, who had just shuffled in with his walker and a stocking cap of turquoise wool.

  “Good morning Mr. Moakley,” said Jeremiah. “I like your hat.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Moakley, touching the cap as if he’d forgotten it. “It’s been a good run, but I’m finally going bald, and my head gets cold. Especially with the climate as it’s been these days.”

  “I’ve seen a lot of turquoise wool around these days. Is there a store on board I don’t know about?”

  “Oh, I can’t remember where I got this,” Mr. Moakley said, too quickly. “Just somewhere or other. Say, Bernie seemed angry—is everything all right?

  Mr. Moakley let go of the walker and plummeted into the seat with a practiced ease.

  “Mr. Wendstrom is fine, Mr. Moakley.”

  “That’s the second time I’ve seen him worked up like that in two days—yesterday he got into a shouting match with Porter over the backgammon board. And when he left just now his shirt wasn’t tucked in right. That’s not good.”

  “Mr. Wendstrom is just under a little stress. But what can I help you with today?”

  “You want to talk about stress?” said Mr. Moakley. “My Relaxation Station has lost its mind. Whatever button I push, it won’t move at all. It just makes this noise like errgh. Ergggh. ERRRRGGGGH. It’s not very relaxing.”

  “Why don’t you take a number,” said Jeremiah, “and tell me all about it?”

  * * *

  In remarkable accordance with Mr. Reynolds’s prediction, the cosmic rays or sympathetic vibrations or gremlins or whatever plagued the systems of the E4—having co-ordinated previous attacks on the PEDs and keycard readers—had now found the frequency of the Relaxation Stations, which were misbehaving en masse. Jeremiah accompanied Mr. Moakley to his cabin, playbook in hand, and within half an hour had coaxed the Relaxation Station back to its usual repertoire of sound and movement, but by the time he returned to the office a line of fellow sufferers had formed in the hall.

  Mr. Meade’s Relaxation Station had reclined fully and now refused to return to a position where he could sit comfortably while watching waves, until a soft reset from Jeremiah convinced it to do so. Mrs. Raymond’s Relaxation Station sat plump and plush, inviting her to sit in it, until she actually did so, at which point it would snap closed like a great upholstered Venus fly trap. Her Relaxation Station required a hard reset—the nuclear option of resets—which wiped out not just the problem but all of her carefully saved preferences. Jeremiah helped her recreate them.

  He was enjoying seeing
the guest cabins again, and there were other perks to making house calls: Mrs. Idlewhile was so grateful that she offered him a cup of brewed tea and a biscuit from her personal larder, which he accepted eagerly. Had unsynthed tea always tasted this good—so unctuous and brisk at once on his tongue? Had simple biscuits always been so light and so sweet? When Mrs. Idlewhile stood up to show him to the door, Jeremiah whisked the package of remaining biscuits off the plate and pocketed it to share later with Katherine.

  * * *

  After a fruitful morning of Relaxation Station repairs, Jeremiah closed up the office and made his way to the cafeteria for lunch.

  He lined up for a synthed ham and American cheese sandwich that the placard described, in a display of optimism almost admirable for its sheer insouciance, as Croque Monsieur.

  “Jeremiah!” called Luis from across the room as he came out of line. “Come sit with us!”

  Jeremiah did, and as he squeezed into the place the Mexican table made for him he found himself being slapped serially on the back.

  “What’s all this for?” he asked.

  “Is felicitations,” said Luis. “For you and the chica! Carlos Second saw you eating breakfast together. You are a thing now?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Jeremiah. “She’s dating John Battle.”

  Luis cocked an eyebrow.

  “Works in security?” said Jeremiah. “Big guy?”

  Jeremiah squared his jaw and pushed his shoulders as high as they would go without touching his ears. The table exploded in laughter.

  “El Luchador? The wrestler, we call him—the fighter. Better you walk away, my friend—he will break you in half! No girl in the world is worth fighting El Luchador!”