“What an ordeal.”
He took a deep breath and tried to shake off the buzz from the Scotch. These words were slowly wrought, “You haven’t heard the half of it. Richard Bock, world-famous writer, wants to press charges against us. His lawyers confiscated my manuscript and gave me a gag order. I’m not supposed to be telling you any of this. To make matters worse, as I was walking home tonight, I got a call from Miles and he told me that the other writers have been taken into custody.”
“Taken into custody? Seems a bit extreme.”
“Bock’s lawyers want blood. This is probably great publicity for him. Pisses me off.” Kurt lost his train of thought for a moment, then said, “It’s hard enough in this business without best-selling authors trying to have me arrested. I’ve never even read one of Bock’s novels. His books suck.”
She laughed. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m a wanted man,” he said.
“The authorities are looking for you?”
“Yes. But don’t worry; they don’t know I’m here.”
“That you know of.”
“When I went home tonight, there was someone in my apartment. I panicked and ran. Probably shouldn’t have, but I did. I tried to check into a hotel, but my credit cards have been canceled. My savings and checking accounts were frozen.”
“My family has a lawyer. We’ll call him in the morning. Tonight you can stay here.”
She went to a drawer in the kitchen and pulled out a handful of keys with tags on them. She picked out one and asked, “How about apartment C?”
“Does it have a view of the courtyard?” Kurt asked.
“That would be F.”
“You sure about all this? This is New York. You shouldn’t have strange men staying over.”
“I’ve had stranger men than you stay the night.”
She took Kurt to apartment F and he was surprised to find it was furnished. She also supplied him with fresh linens.
“This was my dad’s apartment. He used it as an office.”
“I like it.”
Kurt always had trouble sleeping in foreign places. Hotel rooms were the worst. Tonight he had too much to think about. He started pacing the apartment.
The living room was arranged like a study. Rows of expensive leather-bound books lined the shelves, some of which appeared to be rare first editions. A painting from one of the Dutch masters hung behind an old oak desk, and Kurt didn’t doubt its authenticity. The only oddity in the room was a multicolored Rubik’s cube perched on a special holder on the desktop. He had never been good at puzzle games, but out of curiosity he picked it up and made a few turns. He studied it a moment. Viewed multidimensionally, it actually made sense. He made a series of quarter turns, again, again, again, and finally—it was so simple—he had it solved. What was all the fuss about? It was easy.
“What are you doing?” Ursula asked, standing under the frame of the front door.
Kurt turned with a gasp and said, “You scared the crap out of me!”
“That was my dad’s Rubik’s cube.”
Kurt set it back on the perch. “Sorry.”
“I could hear you pacing.” She crossed over to the desk and picked up the completed Rubik’s cube. She studied the toy incredulously and said, “You did it. This one’s really hard. My dad had it specially made.”
“Beginner’s luck, I guess. Sorry, I couldn’t sleep—”
“He has more games.” She walked over to the bookshelf and opened a drawer at the bottom of it. She took out a wooden box, set it on the desk, and opened it, revealing the ivory colored pieces of different geometrical shapes inside.
“It’s called a Tangram,” she said. “Be careful. It’s old.”
“What am I supposed to do with it?”
“You’re supposed to create an image using the pieces.” She went to the bookcase and retrieved a book on Tangrams. She opened it to a random page. “Arrange the pieces so they look like the images in the book. Like this one here.”
It looked like a chicken.
Kurt hovered over the box a moment and studied the ivory pieces. He then took them out and before long he had them arranged to resemble a chicken.
She looked at her watch and said, “It only took you two minutes. Very impressive. Now try this one.”
It looked like a person in silhouette.
“It says here an advanced player can get it done in less than a minute,” she said.
He stared at the picture a moment and then he created the image with the ivory pieces in just a few seconds.
She gasped and slammed the book shut. “How did you do that?”
“This is easy. It’s a kid’s toy.”
“My dad spent every waking minute on these ‘toys.’ He was one of the smartest men I’ve ever met and I doubt very seriously he could have done that.”
Kurt shrugged.
“Alright, Einstein. Let’s see how you do with this.” She quickly went back into the drawer and took out a square box. It was a sliding tile puzzle on a four by four grid.
“Ever done this?” she asked.
“No.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You have trust issues,” he said, taking the game board from her. “How do you play?”
“Put the numbers in sequence,” she said. While he held it, she scrambled the board to make sure none of the pieces were in sequence.
He finished it in thirty-five seconds, with no mistakes or reconsiderations.
She quickly took it from him. She hid the game board from him as she arranged the pieces; the surreptitious behavior, however, gave her no advantage. When she handed it back to him, only the last row was out of sequence. It went 14, 13, 15.
“Fix it.” she said.
He stared at it for a moment. “I would, but it’s impossible.”
“I knew it,” she said, taking the game from him.
“Knew what?”
“You’ve done this before.”
“I’ve never played that game in my life,” he said.
“Then how did you know it’s impossible? You didn’t even try.”
“Seemed obvious to me.”
“It would be impossible for you to know that unless you were some kind of savant or something.”
“Are you saying I’m not smart enough to figure out that silly game?”
“I’m saying that you’re a bit too good looking to be a savant.”
Kurt’s eyes went wide with tickled shock and a winning smirk creased his face.
CHAPTER 4
They were sitting in the kitchen at a breakfast nook in Ursula’s apartment. When she had called him for breakfast earlier, he had felt like he was at a bed and breakfast—until he saw what she had prepared for him: a bowl of Froot Loops, admittedly the only thing she knew how to cook.
“You know, when I said you were too good looking to be a savant, what I meant was—”
“I know what you meant,” Kurt said, slurping fruity milk off a spoon.
“Not sure you do. I’ve known a lot of geniuses. Like everything else, my father collected them. Most of them smelled of old books, dressed like they just got out of bed, and were about as well-groomed as a gorilla. All I meant was that you smell nice—I mean, you’re more clean-cut.”
“I smell good, too?” Kurt asked, looking up at her.
“No—I mean—I haven’t smelled you—you smell fine.” She looked at him doe-eyed for a moment, then said, “This isn’t going how I had imagined it in my mind.”
“I get it,” Kurt said. “You’ve never met anyone who is as smart as he is handsome, exudes a natural manly musk, and is not only well coiffed but fashionably relevant. Yes, we do exist. If you went out once in a while, you might have met more of us.”
She rolled her eyes and tossed a business card onto the table. “Here’s my lawyer’s card.” The name on it was Pham Knigle, Attorney-At-Law.
“Pham?” Kurt asked.
“He’s Vietnamese. My dad shot
him during the war. He felt pretty bad about it, so he told him that when the war was over, he should come to America and work for him. My dad helped him get citizenship and even put him through law school. Sort of a long and weird story, but that was my dad, long and weird.”
“Must be genetic.”
“Very funny.”
“I can maybe understand not having a TV, but how do you live without the Internet?” Kurt asked.
“Having withdrawals?”
“Big time. I should probably check my phone. It’s still in your mailbox.”
“I bet you feel naked without that thing.”
“Pretty much.”
She grinned. “For me, it’s like watching people put a used diaper to their ears.” She tossed him the keys to the mailbox.
“I’ll wash up afterwards.”
Out on the street, Kurt retrieved the cell phone from the tinfoil-lined mailbox and when he turned it on, he noticed he had no messages. Oddly, Miles hadn’t called. Kurt wondered what could have kept him from calling. He decided to call Ursula’s lawyer first, since Miles had stressed the importance of having one.
Kurt dialed the number and when he got the secretary, he was put straight through.
“This is Pham Knigle. Am I speaking to Kurt Robbins?”
“Yes, sir,” Kurt said.
“Mister Robbins, I am exhausted by your case.” He said this with some humor, but he was obviously annoyed. “The U.S. government is upset with you.”
“Government? I’m involved in a copyright infringement . . . issue,” Kurt said.
“Not according to Homeland Security. You’re being investigated for terrorism, Mister Robbins. I strongly recommend you turn yourself into the proper authorities as soon as possible.”
Kurt was stunned silent. “Is this some sort of joke?”
“No, Mister Robbins. I can assure you, this is very serious.”
“It’s got to be a mistake. I’m a writer.”
“Tell me exactly what happened,” Pham said.
“I wrote a book, submitted it to my editor, and was told that I had written the same book as six other writers. I don’t know what you know about plagiarism, but it’s extremely unusual for someone to copy a book word for word. I’d have to be the dumbest guy on Earth to do that.”
“Yes, but unfortunately for you, prisons are filled with stupid people who have done stupid things. What I can’t understand is how a manuscript is part of a terrorist plot. I was hoping you could shed some light on that.”
“That’s crazy.” Kurt was feeling panicked.
“Where are you now?”
“I’m at Ursula’s house. This has to be some sort of mix-up. You really think I should turn myself in?”
“By law, I must advise you to do so. Don’t worry, I will be there to represent you. My guess is that they’ve made these trumped-up charges to circumvent normal legal procedures, but I won’t let them hold you unless sufficient evidence is forthcoming.”
Suddenly, the roaring sounds of a low-flying helicopter made it hard to hear. Kurt stepped inside the building, but it was still too loud. The whole building was rattling.
“I’m going to have to call you back, Mister Knigle,” Kurt yelled into the phone. “I can’t hear!”
“Don’t stall—Mr. Robbins. You—make—nervous. Faster you get—over with—better.”
Dozens of patrol cars came to a screeching halt in front of the building. Kurt peered through the window.
“I told you!” Ursula shouted down to him. “Get rid of the phone!”
Kurt dropped the phone as if it were on fire and ran up the stairs. “What the fuck’s going on?”
Windows shattered and metal canisters spewing smoke rolled into the lobby.
“Come on!” Ursula shouted.
Kurt shielded his head with his arms as he ran up the stairs. “What the hell?!”
“This way!” Ursula said.
She led him down the hallway in full sprint until they got to an old service elevator. She started hitting the call button repeatedly, her expression riddled with panic, her breathing erratic—she was coming apart at the seams—her worst fear was coming true!
The elevator door squeaked open.
More smoking canisters rolled down the hallway.
They retreated into the elevator, and just as the doors closed, one of the canisters exploded, the blast vibrating the door.
“What the hell’s going on?” Kurt asked.
“I knew this was going to happen.” Ursula began impatiently hitting the elevator button labeled B. The elevator was moving at a snail’s pace, but finally the doors parted. A basement was revealed. A waft of rank air assaulted them. Rats scurried off, escaping through a large hole in the wall that appeared to lead to a sewage tunnel.
Ursula quickly went to an old gym locker against a far wall and began dialing the combination. Inside there was a dusty duffel bag. She grabbed it and went for the hole in the wall, saying, “This tunnel leads out onto the street a few blocks away.”
“Are you a drug dealer or something?” Kurt asked.
“They’re not here for me, Kurt. They’re here for you. Now let’s go!”
“Me? How do you know they’re after me?”
“Come on, Kurt! There’s no time!”
Kurt followed her through the hole in the wall and into the sewage tunnel. “What’s in the bag?”
“Rainy day kit.”
After trudging through putrid puddles of water, they finally arrived at a ladder.
“This should be good here,” Ursula said.
“Where are we?” Kurt asked.
“Midtown.”
“Listen. It’s probably better we part ways here. This thing is spinning out of control, and it’s probably not a good idea to be associated with me. Your lawyer advised me to turn myself in, and here I am running away.”
“Usually I would trust his advice, but in this case I’m not so sure. I think I know what’s going on, and I think I can help.”
“Really? How?”
“It’s going to take me a while to explain it. Let’s go find a place where we can talk.”
CHAPTER 5
Though it was quiet and pleasant in the park, save for the occasional car, Kurt felt mentally chaotic. The memory of the man in his apartment kept surfacing. Somehow he knew he was part of the group hunting him down. The dark battered face, misshapen like a Picasso painting, his eyes seething with anger—the image was so burned in Kurt’s mind that it felt like the man was hovering over him right now . . . or watching him from some hidden place. Sitting on a bench in plain sight was making him feel like a sitting duck. Or was Ursula’s paranoia rubbing off on him?
Ursula scanned the park before saying in a whisper, “I think they’ve infected you with some sort of memeplex.”
Kurt sighed, put a forefinger and a thumb into his eye sockets, and massaged gently. “I hate to ask, but what is a memeplex? And who are ‘they’?”
“A memeplex is a conglomeration of ideas . . . how can I put this . . . ? It’s like a mutated virus. It’s a collection of ideas that attacks and influences our thoughts and beliefs.”
“You think I’ve been infected with a mind virus?”
“First of all, you and several others have written the same book. There’s no way you and those other writers could have done that unless you were programmed to do so. Secondly, why would the government put so much energy into catching plagiarizers?”
“Alleged.”
“I don’t think you plagiarized anyone. I think the government infected you and the other writers with that book idea.”
“Why would they do something like that?”
“Why would they infect thousands of Indians with smallpox? Why would they test LSD on their own employees without their knowledge or consent? Why would they throw tear gas into my apartment building? You’ve been attacked, and there’s a chance that thousands, maybe millions more have been exposed. I can’t be sure yet.”
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“You think an idea has been implanted in my mind?”
“I think, in this case, they designed a memeplex that would accelerate the evolutionary process. The government may have found a means to make people smarter. If so, that means that you’re now a weapon.”
Kurt was suddenly forced to admit what he had been feeling for the last few weeks: something was happening to him. It was true that an idea was blooming in his mind, an idea that was changing the way he thought. It was heightening his awareness, redoubling his intellect. He was only beginning to understand it. The government seemed an unlikely culprit. A million little truths were all springing from a source . . . somewhere, and sooner or later he knew he would discover it. His insight was growing by leaps and bounds. Right now, while on the park bench, he knew that that there were seventeen squirrels within twenty-five feet of him. In the last hour, seven different dogs had left their mark on the park trees. The guy across the street in the slacks and dress shirt was in the process of looking for a job, and he wasn’t happy about it.
“I’m not saying I agree with everything you’re saying, but something is definitely happening to me. The question is: what do I do next?”
“We need to keep you from infecting others, at least until we can figure out what’s going on. With a little time, I can track the meme that infected you to its source. We can also determine the type of information you’ve been exposed to.”
“Can you cure me?”
She shrugged. Somehow, he knew the answer was no.
“Just so I understand, you’re saying I’ve been given information that I’m not aware of and that it’s somehow making me smarter?”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t know what type of information?”
“No. But, in my line of work, we study how ideas shape evolution. For instance, thousands of years ago man first devised language and writing. The elite men who knew how to read and write were very powerful and they maintained their power by not sharing their knowledge with others. That’s why the government wants you. If you infect others, they’ll lose their advantage. It’s very likely you’re part of their new elite.”
“But why me?”
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