Ghosts of Columbia

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  I forced myself to eat slowly and not to wolf down my food. After I washed the dishes and set them in the rack, I walked into the main parlor and glanced at the videolink, then shook my head. None of the three channels available in Vanderbraak Centre offered much. In fact, none of the eight in the capital offered much. I walked on into the study, wondering if I should get to work on the article I had promised the Journal of Columbian Politics on the reality of implementing environmental politics. After the editorial controversies over my recycling article, I was faintly surprised that they wanted another one.

  In the dim light I glanced toward the difference engine. Mine was one of the newest electric-fluidic types, not the mechanical monsters that hadn’t changed that much after Babbage invented them, but one of those based on Bajan designs. I never have had much of a problem with using a New French concept, not so long as the manufacturer was a solid Columbian firm, and Spykstra Information Industries, SII, is about as old-line Columbian as you can get. Of course, Bruce had added more than a few frills, both for the extra fees he got and because we went back to the old days, when he was a techie and I a mere expendable. He was smart and got out early, but for some reason he has a warm spot in his Jewish heart for me.

  SII makes its machines about twice as heavy and twice as tough as they probably need to be, and that means twice as much power, and an equivalent monthly bill from NBEI, not to mention the cost of having the house rewired and breakers installed in place of the old Flemish fuses. I even had a no-flicker screen and a nonimpact printer, again on recommendation from Bruce.

  Under the desk, tucked right into a bracket behind the front leg, was a standard watch truncheon, a lot more effective against intruders, most of the time, than firearms. Also, you don’t have to go through the license business. I still retain some occupational paranoia.

  The whole system sat on a low table beside the antique Kunigser desk my father had obtained from somewhere, but from either the desk or the Babbage engine table I could see out the double eight-pane doors across the veranda and down the lawn to the sculpted hedge maze.

  I still hadn’t quite restored the maze, but another year might see it back close to its original condition. Gardening does help heal the past, I had found, at least sometimes.

  Because I was restless and did not feel like writing, I finally opened one of the double doors and slipped out onto the veranda, so welcomingly cool in the autumn. When I had been with the government, when I had been free from assignment for several weeks, my family had enjoyed taking holidays, infrequent as such occasions had been, not only in the summer, but even in the fall. I had liked winter, but Elspeth had been a southern girl and spent her days before the fire or the big woodstove, while Waltar and I skied on the long grassy slope down toward the river. Hiking back up, to me, had even been pleasurable. Waltar would have been ready to enter college by now.

  For a time I stood and watched the purple twilight drop toward black velvet above the hills across the river, watched the lights of Vanderbraak Centre blink on, some reflecting in a patch of the River Wijk. As the chill built, I realized that I did not stand on the veranda alone, that a white figure stood in the shadows closer to the house.

  Slowly I sat down on the white-painted wrought-iron chair, but the floral patterns felt like they were cutting right through my trousers. So I sat on the stone wall, but Carolynne had not moved.

  “Carolynne …”

  She drifted across the stones until she stood almost by my shoulders. Her hair was in a bun, as always, and she wore what Llysette would have called a recital gown, an old-fashioned one that covered her shoulders and upper arms, the kind they still wear out in Deseret.

  “You used to talk to me.”

  An indistinct nod was her sole response.

  “I am an adult. Elspeth is dead, and so is Waltar. Whatever—however—my mother bound you, that should not hold you now.”

  Only the whisper of the breeze through the ancient oaks and the pines planted by the builder of the house, the English deacon, greeted my request. My father had said there was more to the story than her murder by the deacon’s wife, and more to Carolynne, and that someday he would tell me. But he died in a steamer accident while I was in Columbia, at my time of troubles, and he never did. He never left a note, not that I found, but Mother had sorted through his papers.

  “Please, gentle singer, why are you here? Why do you linger? Why do I dream of you?”

  Just a sense of tears, perhaps three notes sung so softly that even the breeze was louder, and she vanished, leaving me alone in the twilight on the old stones of the porch. For a time longer I watched the lights of the town, and some winked out, and some winked on, just like life.

  Finally, when the breeze turned even colder, I walked inside, closed the door, and went upstairs to go to bed alone.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Good morning, Doktor Eschbach.” Marie Rijn swept into the house with her usual smile and bustle of gray working skirts.

  “Good morning, Marie. This time I do believe most of the dishes are clean, and—”

  “You leave me little enough to do, Doktor Eschbach. Be on your way, and leave my work to me.”

  “Things are fairly clean.”

  “Fairly clean is not clean, Doktor.” Marie insisted on re-cleaning everything until the house shone, and then, I think, she went home and did the same there. Good, clean Dutch stock.

  I shrugged. Being alone for the past three years, I’d had enough time to clean up and do laundry—especially at first, in the Federal District. Even if my efforts weren’t quite to Marie’s standards, my houses had been clean, probably because without sisters I had learned enough growing up. Besides, after the accident and Elspeth’s death, it had helped to keep busy. Yes, anything to keep busy.

  “As you wish, Marie.”

  “And for dinner, Doktor?”

  “Tonight for one. Perhaps two tomorrow night.”

  “Someday, will you marry the French woman?”

  “I have not thought that far ahead.”

  “But perhaps she has.” Marie gave me a sidelong look, one that warned me about scheming women preying on lonely men, as if I needed more warning. Still, Llysette had not pressed me, and she had shared my bed, offering warmth in a chill world.

  Although my breath steamed in the morning air as I opened the car barn, it was measurably warmer than when I had awakened and run to the top of Deacon’s Lane and along the ridge and back. The chill had been especially welcome after the run, when I had stepped up my exercises.

  I tossed my leather case into the Stanley and clicked the lighter plug, then sat and waited until the warning light flicked off before backing out of the car barn onto the hard bluestone of the drive. I put on the brake, closed the car barn door, climbed back into the steamer, and turned it around before heading down the long driveway to Deacon’s Lane.

  In the field across the lane from the house, Benjamin’s sons were harvesting the pumpkins that had grown between the last rows of corn. The squash had already come in. I waved, and Saul waved back, but Abraham didn’t see me.

  Most of the thin layer of frost had melted in the morning light by the time I drove across the River Wijk and stopped outside Samaha’s to pick up my copy of the Asten Post-Courier. The sign outside the cluttered display window says that the store has been there for over a century. So had some of the inventory, but Louie—he refused to be called Louis—was the only shopkeeper left in town who had special narrow paper boxes for his customers. I do have a fondness for some traditions.

  Samaha’s Factorium and Emporium is dark, with wooden counters and rough-paneled walls that contain fine cracks older than any current living souls in Vanderbraak Centre. Even the modern glow panels in the ceiling do not seem to penetrate the store’s history.

  I walked past the bakery counter that always featured breads and rolls heavy enough to sink a dreadnought or serve as ballast for a dirigible and pulled my paper from its slot, fifth down in the
first row, right below the empty slot labeled “Derkin.” In the year and a half since I returned to Vanderbraak Centre, I’d never seen mister Derkin.

  “Here you go, Louie.” I left my dime on the counter. The Post-Courier was only seven cents, but the other three I had pressed on Louie on principle as a fee for saving back issues for me when I was away.

  “Thanks be ye, Doktor. Have a pleasant day.”

  “The same to you.”

  The front-page story below the fold caught my eye, and I read it even before I left the store.

  SAN FRANCISCO (RPI)—A fire of undetermined origin destroyed the entire Babbage center of the California Polytechnic Institution late last night, killing one professor and a night watchman. Arson is suspected, but the destruction was so thorough that it may be weeks before federal investigators can determine even where in the massive complex the fire began. The dead professor is believed to be the Babbage research coordinator, Elston Janes.

  CPI has been the site of recent protests against psychic phenomena duplication studies. Webster VanBujirk, speaking for the Roman Catholic Diocese of the Pacific, denied any church involvement. “Although we have expressed grave concerns about the direction of Babbage research [at CPI], such widespread destruction is reprehensible.”

  Selkik Means, Anglican-Baptist bishop of California, released a statement which claimed in part that “all devout Anglican-Baptists deplore such wanton destruction.” Even so, Bishop Means added that he hoped that after rebuilding the facility the Institution would reconsider its policy of accepting federal research contracts on psychic phenomena.

  The Alliance for World Peace asked Speaker Hartpence to begin an investigation into charges that the CPI research was in fact disguised Defense Ministry research. This allegation was denied immediately by the Defense Subminister for Procurement and Research. Speaking on behalf of Minister Gore, Subminister Allard Reynard stated, “The federal research conducted at CPI was exactly as contracted. It was research of purely psychic phenomena….”

  I folded the paper into my case and climbed back into the Stanley for the short drive to the faculty car park. As I turned up Highland Street, the clock on the post centre struck half past eight.

  Only a handful of spaces remained, but then, the car park only contained four dozen places, and twice that number of faculty lived outside of easy walking distance. The rest parked where they could, but not, of course, around the square. The parking issue almost had had Dean Er Recchus and the town elders before the magistrates, and might yet again.

  I vented the Stanley before locking the doors and walked to the Natural Resources Department’s offices. Gilda had not arrived, and there were only two messages in my box. One was from my esteemed chairman, the most honorable Doktor David Doniger—a reminder of the faculty meeting, on the special memo paper he used as chairman. The other was a note from the Student Affairs office that Corinne Blasefeldt would be absent because of her father’s funeral. I wanted to send a note back that I would have been surprised if she had been in class, but the dean’s office would not have appreciated the humor.

  Once in my office, I read the Post-Courier from front to back, but there were no other stories related to the California Babbage center fire. The Asten Braves had finally decided to move to Atlanta as a result of falling attendance and the failure of the city fathers to allow hard liquor in the old stadium. Then again, soccer has always been a participatory sport for the Dutch, unlike the English, and Atlanta was far more English.

  I read the CPI story again. Finally I dug out the student file I needed and looked up Gerald Branston-Hay’s wire number in the faculty directory. I should have remembered it, but I never did. Then I picked up the handset and dialed the numbers.

  “To whom do you wish to speak?”

  “Gerald, this is Johan Eschbach—”

  “Ah, Johan. How might I help you? Or should I ask, what might be the problem this time?”

  “You know, you Babbage types always create problems.” I laughed.

  “So you insist.” His voice was dry.

  “I have a rather delicate problem with one of my advisees, a Peter Paulus. I’d rather not discuss it on the wire. Is there some time you might be free for a few moments?”

  I waited.

  “Ah … I was checking my schedule. How about eleven o’clock?”

  “I am sorry, but I have a class then.”

  “Well … it’s a bit short, but I could do it now. I have an appointment at ten.”

  “It shouldn’t take that long. In ten minutes, then?”

  “That would be fine.”

  While I did have a problem with Peter Paulus, I really wanted to talk to the good Doktor Branston-Hay again before there were any more fires of suspicious origin, particularly in the vicinity of Vanderbraak State University.

  Gilda had claimed her desk by the time I headed out. Bulking over the corner of the desk in his black suit and maroon cravat was the junior member of the department, Wilhelm Mondriaan, some shirttail relative of the painter. The young Doktor Mondriaan had received his doctorate from The University—Virginia—and had yet to realize that most of us had ceased to worship unquestioningly at that altar of higher education, Thomas Jefferson notwithstanding.

  “Please do not let any of the students see the exam when you duplicate them.” Mondriaan attempted to cultivate a rumbling bass, but a mild baritone was all he could manage. He turned to me. “Good day, Johan. What is the festive occasion?”

  I looked down. My jacket was light gray, but the cravat was a maroon brighter than normal by Dutch standards. “No special reason. I suppose I felt cheerful.” I looked at Gilda. “I am headed over to the Babbage offices to see Professor Branston-Hay about a student whose problems we share. I won’t likely be too long.”

  “Dare I guess?” she asked.

  “I’d rather you did not. You might be correct.”

  Mondriaan frowned at my levity. He’d learn, unfortunately, that levity was often the only escape from academic insanity.

  The brick-paved walkway to the additional steps up to the hillside building containing the lords of the difference engine was nearly untraveled, since it was between classes. I passed only Gregor Martin, and he scowled indifferently.

  Gerald Branston-Hay was not even the department chairman, but his office was twice the size of Doktor Geoffries’s—Llysette’s chairman, who had a Steinbach upright in his spaces—and easily three times the size of Doktor Doniger’s, although David had neither difference engines nor pianos to worry about.

  More interestingly, every Babbage man or woman I knew was surrounded by stacks of paper, piles of disk cases, or pieces of hardware, or, more usually, some combination of all three. Every surface in Branston-Hay’s office was always clean and had been every time I had come to see Gerald. Even my office isn’t that empty, and with my government experience, I knew the danger of loose information.

  He did have a modern electro-fluidic difference engine—although mine was probably close to his in capability. Both our machines probably made most recent machines look as obsolete as Babbage’s original mechanical model, the one that sat unrecognized for its capabilities for nearly fifteen years after his death, until it fell into the hands of John Ericson.

  “Please have a seat.”

  I took the chair across the desk from him and opened the file I had brought. Best to begin with the ostensible reason for my visit. It might even offer an opening. “I noticed that young Paulus received a warning in your introductory class. From what I recall, this is not a difficult course, assuming one does the work.”

  Gerald offered a quick smile. “While I would not characterize the course as particularly easy, virtually any student who matriculates here should be able to master enough of the material to turn in acceptable work. The reason Mister Paulus received a warning is relatively simple. He seems to be one of those few students with an inability to understand a series of logical commands. To use a difference engine requires usi
ng Babbage language or one of the newer programming systems. All are based on logic. While Mister Paulus has demonstrated the ability to memorize the structure and commands, he seems unable to fathom anything which requires either logical analysis or construction.” He shrugged. “There it is, I’m afraid.”

  “Hmmmm,” I temporized. “That would seem a serious flaw. I am surprised that it’s not more widespread, in some ways.”

  “There are always a few students like that, but most seem able to grasp the use of logic.”

  “Do you suppose that … doctrinal background has anything to do with it?”

  “Doctrinal? Oh, I suppose you’re referring to the religious fundamentalists.”

  “They do seem to oppose logic. Did you see the Post-Courier this morning?”

  “I haven’t read it.”

  “Apparently some fundamentalist group burned the entire Babbage center at the California Polytechnic Institution. Didn’t you do some graduate work there?”

  “No. I did work with Immanuel Jobs, who now runs their program. Burned the entire Babbage center, you say? So,” he mused, “I thought I heard something about that on the videolink this morning, but I really didn’t pay much attention.”

  “One group claimed that CPI was actually doing Defense Ministry work on psychic phenomena.” I shrugged. “Why is it that people want to link Babbage research with ghosting?”

  “They have since before I got my doctorate.” Gerald shifted his weight in his chair and looked toward the door.

  I ignored his hint and went on. “We’ve talked about this before, but aren’t most university Babbage people doing some work on the psychic side?” I waved off his objection. “I know you can’t tell me exactly what you’re doing because of the government contracting rules and all that. That’s not what I’m talking about. But you Babbage people have both the expertise in correlating data and the most expertise in electrical fields, particularly those of a transitory or almost nontangible nature. That makes it pretty hard to avoid this sort of speculation, doesn’t it?” I smiled broadly and, I hoped, in my friendliest manner.