“Dixon wrote that? ‘The conquistador’?”
“He did, sir.”
“I’ll be damned. If he helped the project any more, people would suspect us.”
“I thought you’d be pleased, sir.”
Thomas scurries off, your mood prepared perfectly. This conversation may be delicate, but the goal is clear. Rare is the day when you fail to accomplish your objectives.
Dr. Philo enters with shoulders high, a boxer climbing into the ring. It is to be expected, of course. Disarming her is the first step.
“Please”—you gesture at a chair—“make yourself comfortable.”
“Thank you.” She sits on the chair’s front edge.
“Coffee? Tea?”
“I’ve had breakfast, thanks.”
“Yes. Well, Dr. Philo, I have been following the public life of Subject One with considerable interest. I wanted us to meet today so that I could commend you.”
“Excuse me?”
“There have been no untoward incidents. Publicity has been uniformly positive. He remains healthy. In sum, we have cause for long-term optimism.” Though it galls you to praise anyone, much less such a thorn in your side, you make the slightest possible bow, perhaps more of a nod. “Congratulations.”
“Oh.” She half turns her head, eyes narrowed. “Well. Thank you.”
“What, for example, do you have scheduled for Subject One today?”
At last she inches back in the chair. “Actually, it should be interesting. In an hour he has his first television spot.”
“Local or national?”
“Local production, but national broadcast.”
“Taped or live?”
“Live. Why?”
You adjust the task list on your desk. “I want you in the booth. Should he inadvertently bring any trouble on himself or the project, you shut it down.”
“What’s your concern?”
“The ‘gotcha’ risk seems high. Even seasoned media people can be sandbagged.”
“I’ll be on guard. But I’m sensing something larger behind your questions.”
“Are you?” At that, you push back from the desk, cross to the credenza, and squeeze some sanitizer on your hands. “Are you aware that Subject One has expressed an interest in using his reanimation toward a larger purpose?”
She nods. “He said he wants to be more than merely a time tourist.”
“Precisely.” You stand behind your desk chair. “Coincidentally, there are now entities who have expressed an interested in enlarging the work of the Lazarus Project.”
“Meaning what?”
“That’s unclear, for the moment. Our technology could have many applications. The point is that there could be no greater visual aid, for these ongoing discussions, than the living, constructive presence of Subject One. Thus it’s my hope—and here is what I wish to impart to you today—that his conduct will continue to reflect well on our organization and its greater potential.”
“I see. But of course we both know he is not your employee.”
“Of course.” You feel your blood rise, which you squelch with a forced smile. “I mean only that we might align his interests with ours.”
“I see,” she says again. She folds her hands as if in prayer.
“I remind you that I have repeatedly asked you for a complete dossier on his history, to ascertain if there are any liabilities we ought to be aware of.”
“You might notice that I’ve been occupied with showing Judge Rice the world.”
“Your deadline is Friday morning when I arrive at my desk. Not one minute later.” When she frowns, you add, “Have I not been patient?”
Dr. Philo cools one degree. “You have. Sorry.”
“Friday morning, then. First thing.”
To lighten the moment, you stroll to your favored spot by the window. The demonstrators, now four hundred strong and all wearing red, are usually inactive at this hour of the morning. But today they have formed a cluster around a limousine that pulled up to the front entry. They surround it, four deep.
“Come see this,” you call to her. “They have the most ingenious domination technique. It’s as though they form a human corral.”
She reaches you just as the driver steps out of the car. In seconds a swarm forms, circling him and pulling him away. He attempts to move to the entry, but they thwart him with a mash of bodies. Surrounded, he goes still while they chant at him from all sides.
“I love these people.”
“Damn it,” she says. “The studio was sending a car for Jeremiah. I bet that’s it.”
“He won’t be driving anyone anywhere this morning.” You turn to her. “And is it ‘Jeremiah’ now?”
“Excuse me, but I need to make a Plan B. Otherwise we’re going to be late.”
“Wait.” You raise your hand. “Thomas?”
He’s at the door instantly. “Sir?”
“Please call a town car immediately for Dr. Philo and Subject One.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Instruct the driver to use the rear entrance.”
“Will do, sir.”
There is the littlest thrill, right then, the pleasure of a tiny token of indebtedness entering your account with this woman. She now owes you. And your objective, of seeking her allegiance as the project grows into what it ought to be, has been fulfilled thanks to the favorable misbehavior of the rabble below.
“Dr. Philo.” You fold your hands together like a minister who has just finished preaching. “Is there anything else that I might do for you?”
CHAPTER 27
The Prince
(Kate Philo)
I could have predicted he would be wearing the yellow tie. I had made sure he bought at least one red, one blue, one green, but yellow it always was.
“I’m afraid we have to hurry, Jeremiah.” I pulled his curtains closed, not wanting the control room staring in at his empty chamber. “Issues with the car.”
“I’m perfectly ready.” He marched ahead to the security door, raising his hand toward the keypad. Then he stopped, stepping aside. “Lead on,” he said.
I punched in the pass code, wondering what game the judge was playing. But I was too stressed to bring it up just then. Carthage’s odd behavior had rattled me, an unexpected warmth that aroused all my suspicions. In the corridor Dixon wanted to stop us for some questions but I pushed past, explaining that we were running late. I pressed the elevator call button, feeling the heat of his eyes on me while we waited.
When we reached the security desk, Gerber was slumped there like a sad clown. “I forgot my badge,” he said to me. “Please tell this brave protector of our safety that I do work here.”
“He works here,” I said, writing my name and Jeremiah’s into the register.
“Hey, Judge Rice, quick question,” Gerber said. “I know we’re cool on not monitoring you anymore, and giving you privacy. But I was wondering if you would mind I attached just one diode, just one little electronic thing, when you’re asleep at night?” He held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “You’d barely notice. And we’d learn a ton. It would be a contribution to science.”
“Is that right?” Jeremiah asked. “Then the answer is yes.”
“Could we talk about this later?” I said. “We’re late.”
“One moment,” the guard said. “If this gentleman does work here, I’ll need you to sign a voucher.”
“Please go ahead.” I waved Jeremiah on. “I’d rather our friends in the red shirts don’t see you again. The car should be waiting in back.” He ambled off across the atrium while I bent over the page. “I’ll sign, but is this really necessary?”
“We’re just following Dr. Carthage’s rules.”
Gerber chuckled. “Apparently I am just the sort of person that I need to be protected fr
om.”
When Jeremiah was out of earshot, I turned to Gerber. “What’s this night monitoring all about?”
He shrugged. “Nothing. Maybe nothing.”
“Maybe?”
“I’ll tell you later. Go. Thank you for letting me work today.”
I hustled across the atrium. “Send me an e-mail about what you’re doing.”
Gerber wiggled his fingers in my direction. “Go go go.”
Jeremiah stood by the car but had not moved to climb in yet. Instead he was talking to a slender woman in a white beret. She stood between him and the open door, and instantly I felt my hackles rise.
“Excuse me,” I called, breaking into a run. “Excuse me, is there something I can do for you?”
The woman turned to me with complete calm. Still, my usual self-possession was eluding me. “No thank you.” Then she faced Jeremiah again. She was holding his hand, their eyes locked on each other.
He stood like a statue. “Do I know you?”
“No,” she said, “but we are a part of one another.”
“How can that be?”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Everyone wants something from you, but I thought it was important for you to know that I don’t. Want anything, I mean.”
“Who are you?” I said. Closer, I saw that she was beautiful: high forehead, brilliant blue eyes. “What do you want?”
“I’m Hilary,” she answered, keeping her eyes on Jeremiah. Then she stepped back, releasing her hold. “And all I wanted was this. Just this.”
The tenderness of her voice kept us all still for a moment. Then I broke the mood. “I’m sorry, but we have an interview to get to.”
“Of course.” She backed away. “Sorry if I delayed you.”
“Thank you, Hilary,” Jeremiah said, almost whispering.
“You’re welcome,” she said, stopping at the curb. We climbed into the car, quieted, I told the driver the address. The woman was still standing there, melancholy, dignified, as we pulled into traffic and away.
I settled back in the seat. “Who was that woman?” I asked Jeremiah. “Have we seen her before?”
“Hilary someone.”
“What was that all about?”
“I don’t know.” Jeremiah directed his gaze out the window. “I’m not sure.”
The drive gave me time to wonder why I had reacted so protectively. Clearly this Hilary woman wasn’t one of the protesters, so she didn’t pose that kind of danger. Plus we had interacted with thousands of strangers in recent weeks, without my defenses being so triggered.
Was it jealousy? There was a definite intimacy to the moment I’d interrupted. So what? Who am I to barge in like that? Of course I’d felt urges toward Jeremiah. How could anyone spend that much time in the presence of an intelligent man, who oh-by-the-way happens to be jaw-dropping gorgeous, without experiencing occasional stirrings? But I had no delusions. I knew he belonged to me in no way whatsoever.
Still, I wondered once again about sexual changes across the century. After the snarky men of recent years, promise-today-disappear-tomorrow guys, it might be nice with someone less sexually sophisticated. Jeremiah’s reactions to billboards, the covers of women’s magazines promising 22 WAYS TO MAKE HIM SCREAM TONIGHT, the provocative clothing people wore at Gerber’s disco, all revealed to me his reserve. By contrast, I had a hard drive full of memories of men pawing at me, urging me to enact a fantasy they’d had, trying to talk me into some scenario I suspected came from the most recent porn video they’d seen online. Probably every woman wonders at some point: what portion of the love professed in my ears was base desire, and what part genuinely for me? Maybe, with a man from a simpler sexual time, answering that question would be easier.
Jeremiah stared out the window, watching the city with bright eyes. I felt an odd reversal. If we were ever lovers, an impossibility yes, maybe I would seem like the callous sophisticate to him. In relative terms, I might be worse than the most caddish of the oafs who’d made moves on me.
Or was Hilary a different kind of danger altogether? The connection between them had been visible the moment I stepped outside. But it was not quite sexual. It seemed, possibly, a bit spiritual. Maybe I’d felt threatened needlessly. There was nobody I could ask, no person I could discuss these things with. Not Chloe, not Billings anymore, no one.
“I am remiss,” Jeremiah said, turning abruptly. “I have neglected to ask what the purpose of today’s interview might be.”
I released my reverie like a twig to float downstream. “Funny thing, I was just speaking with Carthage about that.”
“About today’s meeting?”
“No, about your interest in serving a larger purpose.”
“Is today an opportunity to end the lark, and consider the greater good?”
“Well, he certainly thought so. Carthage has people interested in building the project into something bigger. He wants you to help, with raising money, I suppose.”
“That is not what I meant at all.” Jeremiah pounded a fist on his thigh. “That Carthage. He annoys me like a wasp.”
“What?” I shifted in my seat. “I didn’t know you had formed a judgment of him.”
“That man would not bother to breathe if it did not contribute to his self-aggrandizement.” He smoothed his hand over where he had pounded. “I have observed his conduct toward others.” His voice fell. “I have noted his treatment of you.”
“But we all see that. We just tolerate it because it enables the project to exist. If not for Carthage, I would not have a job, much less a . . . well, a you.”
“Kate.” Jeremiah turned sideways in his seat, taking both of my hands. “I cannot imagine why I out of all humanity received the gift of a second life. Nor do I much understand why the people of here and now exhibit such fascination with me. But I do not need to fathom these things to know that they present me with an opportunity to achieve something many, many times greater than what we had hoped to accomplish with our modest expedition to the north. If I were to squander that chance on something as small as Carthage’s desire for money, it would be akin to wasting this second life.”
“Then the time to seize that opportunity is now,” I said. “Right now.”
“Here we are,” the driver said, pulling over. He hopped out, clambering around to open the curbside door.
Jeremiah looked down at our hands, smiling. “We seem to have arrived.”
“I’d say so.”
“Hoist anchor, Kate. Here we go.” He scrambled up out of the seat. I hurried along after him.
“You’re late,” said a ponytailed woman who’d suddenly appeared by our car. “Follow me.”
She spun on her running shoe and we did as we were told. She was young, barely thirty, carried a clipboard, wore a headset around her neck which she raised to bring the mouthpiece near. “They’re here, we’re going straight to makeup.” She called back over her shoulder, “You do know this is live TV, don’t you? Time matters.”
“Excuse me, miss?” Jeremiah said.
“Yes?” She did not break stride.
“What is your name?”
“Oh.” She slowed. “I’m Alex.”
“Hello, Alex.” He held out his hand. “I’m Jeremiah Rice.”
“Hi, then.” She shook his hand. “Right.” Again Alex strode ahead.
Of course Jeremiah was the featured attraction, I merely the protective caretaker. So I followed mutely while they rushed him to makeup, where they sprayed his hair in place, then to wardrobe, where a man with a tiny whisk broom brushed Jeremiah’s jacket, picking at invisible pieces of lint. Each department had a name for him: “talent” in one, “our guest” in another. Everywhere Alex led us, a TV hung near the ceiling, showing the program Jeremiah would appear on momentarily. It was The Tom and Molly Show, half news, half talk, two hosts: a ta
ll blond woman with a chest that I would have bet cash was doctored, who seemed to have the role of the serious one, the asker of tough questions, beside a shorter man with a perfect tan, jaw square like a backhoe, a yuk-yuk laugh like a cartoon character.
Finally they led us onto the set. In a word: dingy. The floor was filthy cement, sticky from coffee spills, cables running underfoot, with a little raised island of carpet and chairs that sat in the bright lights. I noticed a poster on a side wall, a giant enlargement of Jeremiah shaking hands with the vice president. Over Gerald T. Walker’s head someone had pasted a thought balloon: I AM USING YOU. Over Jeremiah, there was a reply: YOUR ZIPPER’S DOWN.
Jeremiah tapped my arm, pointing to the opposite offstage side. There were action shots of baseball players all along that wall: hurling a pitch, diving for a grounder, swinging for the seats. “I love that,” he whispered.
“I wonder if the station has a box at Fenway.”
“What is Fenway?”
“Shhh,” said Alex, silent in her sneakers, rushing past.
Up in the lights, a woman in an apron was teaching Tom and Molly how to whip cream properly. A staffer approached Jeremiah with a mike, threading the wire up his sleeve. Another man stood at Jeremiah’s elbow, pointing at a camera. “When the red light is on, that one is shooting you. Look right at it for the intro and exit. Otherwise just face Molly and Tom when they speak to you, okay?”
“It’s just like a conversation,” the soundman said.
“Only fake,” the cameraman added.
“Thank you, gentlemen. Would you please tell me your names?” Jeremiah held out his hand.
They told him, shaking hands in turn.
“Time-wasting assholes,” Alex said, breezing up. “We’re about to cut away, then you’re on. Stay here. You.” She pointed at me. “Follow me.”
“Good luck,” I called to Jeremiah.
“I’ll do my part,” he answered.
The booth was a bank of controls and mixers, back behind the cameras. Two men in headsets worked computers while a screen to the side showed what was being broadcast. Just beyond stood a man I imagined to be the director, because he spoke into his mouthpiece to control which cameras shot next. When he said, “Cut to four and zoom,” a different angle appeared on-screen.
The Curiosity Page 24
