The viewpoint abruptly shifted to the second security camera in the hall. King was visible now, with his back to the camera, and Charlotte watched carefully as the girl moved forward, her eyes gazing into his, and raised her head slightly so that he could kiss her on the lips. King did not seem surprised, and he responded to the unspoken invitation. The kiss did not seem particularly passionate; it might, Charlotte thought, have been a polite greeting between people who had some history of intimacy, but were meeting as friends, or it might have been a friendly kiss exchanged in hopeful anticipation of future intimacy. There was no soundtrack on the tape, but few words were spoken before King stood aside to let his visitor precede him into the sitting room. The tape cut again, and they saw the woman re-emerge from the doorway. She was alone, and seemed quite composed as she walked to the main door of the apartment, opened it, and went out.
“She was inside for about half an hour,” said Charlotte, drily. “King was still perfectly healthy when she left, and it wasn’t until some twelve or thirteen hours later that he called up a diagnostic program. He never had a chance to hit his panic button—the progress of the plant was too swift. We’ll know more when we’ve decanted his bubblebugs, but we won’t know what went on in the bedroom. The girl might have nothing at all to do with it, but she was the last person to see him alive. We don’t know how she fed him the seeds, if indeed she did feed them to him. Do you recognize her?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Oscar. “I can only offer the obvious suggestion.”
“Which is?”
“Rappaccini’s daughter.”
Charlotte said nothing, but simply waited for clarification.
“It’s another echo of the nineteenth century,” said Oscar, with a slight sigh. “Rappaccini borrowed his pseudonym from a story by Nathaniel Hawthorne entitled ‘Rappaccini’s Daughter.’ You don’t know the period, I take it?”
“Not very well,” she said awkwardly. “Hardly at all” would have been nearer the truth.
“Then it’s as well that I’m here. Otherwise, this exotic performance would be entirely wasted.”
“You think that the man you know as Rappaccini is acting the part of his namesake—just as you make a show of acting the part of yours?”
Oscar shrugged. “In the story, Rappaccini committed no murder—but he did cultivate fatal flowers: fleurs du mal. Our Rappaccini has signed his work, for those who have the wit to read the signature. I have a strong suspicion that we have probably seen the murder committed, by means of that gentle kiss which our mysterious visitor delivered. She, of course, would have to be immune to them.”
“This is too much,” Charlotte explained.
“I quite agree. As lushly extravagant as a poem in prose by Baudelaire himself. But we have been instructed to expect a Baudelairean dimension. I can hardly wait for the next installment of the story.”
“You think this is going to happen again?”
“I’m almost sure of it,” said Oscar, with infuriating calm. “If Rappaccini intends to present us with a real psychodrama, he will hardly stop when he has only just begun.
“The next murder, by the way, might well be committed in San Francisco.”
“Why San Francisco?”
“Because the item which was faxed through to me when I was summoned here was a reservation for the midnight maglev to San Francisco.” So saying, he took a sheet of paper from his pocket, and held it out for her inspection.
She took it from him, and stared at it dumbly.
“Why didn’t you show me this immediately?” she said.
“My mind was occupied with other things. Anyhow, your colleague Dr. Watson must have obtained a copy of the message when he tried to trace it. Perhaps he has already begun to investigate. I do hope that you will not try to prevent my using the ticket—and that you will allow me to assist you throughout the investigation.”
“Why should I?” she replied. She was uncomfortably aware of the fact that she could not prevent his going anywhere in the world he pleased.
“Because the person who committed this murder has gone to extraordinary lengths to make me party to the investigation. If I am supposed to go to San Francisco, there must be a reason. This is only the beginning, dear Charlotte, and if you wish to get to the end with all possible speed, you must stay with me. You can, of course, count on my complete cooperation and my absolute discretion.”
And you, Charlotte said, silently, while she stared into his lovely eyes, can count on being instantly arrested, the moment Hal digs up anything that proves your involvement in this unholy mess.
3
IBI headquarters in New York were in the “new” UN complex built in 2431. There had once been talk of the UN taking over the whole of Manhattan Island, but that had gone the way of most dream-schemes during the troubled years of the Aftermath. Now, an even more grandiose plan to move the core of the UN bureaucracy to Antarctica was well-advanced. The same sentence of death had been passed on the IBI complex that had been passed on the whole of New York City, but Gabriel King’s brand of controlled rot had not yet been allowed to set in.
“How well did you know Gabriel King?” Charlotte asked Oscar, while they were en route in the police car. He had suggested that he come with her until the time appointed for his departure, and she had been quick to agree although she knew that Hal would not approve.
“I supply his company with decorative materials for various building projects. I haven’t met him for more than twenty years. He and I are by no means kindred spirits.”
“And how well do you know Rappaccini?”
“I know the work far better than the man, but there was a period before and after the Great Exhibition when we met regularly. We were often bracketed together by critics who observed a kinship in our ideas, methods, and personalities but I was never convinced of the similarity. Our conversations were never intimate; we discussed art and genetics, never ourselves. It was a long time ago.”
She would have pursued the line of questioning further, but the distance between the Trebizond Tower and the UN complex was short, and they arrived before she had a chance to do any serious probing. She asked Oscar to wait in her office while she consulted her colleague in private. “I brought Wilde with me,” she told Hal, brusquely.
Even in the dim light, she was easily able to see the expression of distaste which flitted across Hal’s face, but all he said was: “Why?”
“Because he knows too much about this business,” she said, wishing that it didn’t sound so feeble, so intuitive. “I know it sounds crazy, but I think he set this whole thing up, then turned up in person to watch us wrestle with it!”
“So you think his introduction of the ‘Rappaccini’ name is a red herring?”
“Yes, I do. It’s all far too convenient. Is it possible that Rappaccini is entirely his invention?”
“I’ll check it out,” Hal said. “But we don’t need him here.”
“He wants to go to San Francisco on the midnight maglev.”
“Let him. What difference does it make? We can find him, if need be, in San Francisco or on the moon.”
“Suppose he were to murder someone else,” said Charlotte, desperately. It was pointless. Modern detective work was sifting data, carefully sorting the relevant from the irrelevant, and the real information from misinformation and disinformation. Talking to people, being a real-time activity, was generally considered to be an inordinately wasteful use of IBI time, to be kept to an absolute minimum even by lowly scene-of-crime officers. “Can I bring him down here?” Charlotte asked, defensively. “I’d like you to see for yourself what he’s like—then perhaps you’ll understand what I mean.”
Hal shrugged in world-weary fashion.
Charlotte collected Oscar from her office, and brought him down into Hal’s Underworld. The room was crowded with screens and comcons, but there were enough workstations for them to sit reasonably comfortably.
“Oscar Wilde—Hal Watson,” she said,
with awkward formality. “Mr. Wilde thinks that his unique insight may be of some help in the investigation.”
“I hope so,” said Oscar, smoothly. “There are times when instant recognition and artistic sensitivity facilitate more rapid deduction than the most powerful analytical engines. I am an invader in your realm, of course—and I confess that I feel like one of those mortals of old who fell asleep on a burial mound and woke to find himself in the gloomy land of the fairy folk—but I really do feel that I can help you. I have some hours in hand before the midnight maglev leaves.”
“I’m always grateful for any help I can get,” said Hal, not bothering to feign sincerity. Charlotte saw that her colleague was unimpressed by Oscar Wilde’s recently renewed handsomeness. Hal, whose machine-assisted perceptions ground up all the richness and complexity of the social world into mere atoms of data, had not the same idea of beauty as common men. The cataract of encoded data which poured through his screens was his reality, and, for him, beauty was to be found in patterns woven out of information or enigmas smoothed into comprehension, not in the hard and soft sculptures of stone and flesh. Unfortunately, the unshadowy world of hard and superabundant data had yet to be persuaded to explain how it had produced the eccentric masterpiece of mere appearances which was the murder of Gabriel King.
“Rappaccini is proving evasive,” Hal told Charlotte, while his eyes continued to scan his screens. “His business dealings are fairly elaborate, but he holds a flag-of-convenience citizenship in the Kalahari Republic, and has no recorded residence. His telephonic addresses are black boxes, and he conducts all his affairs through the medium of AIs. The Rappaccini name first became manifest in 2480, when he registered with the Institute of the Genetic Arts in Sydney. He participated in a number of public exhibitions, including the Great Exhibition of 2505, sometimes putting in personal appearances. Unlike other genetic engineers specializing in flowering plants, he never got involved in designing gardens or in the kind of interior decoration that provides you with a living, Mr. Wilde. He seems to have specialized in the design of funeral wreaths.”
“Funeral wreaths?” echoed Charlotte, incredulously. The manufacture of funeral wreaths seemed an absurd profession for anyone to follow, even in the guise of a part-time persona. Now that serial rejuvenation supposedly guaranteed everyone an extended lifespan, funerals were not the everyday occurrences they once had been. On the other hand, their very rarity meant that the ceremony devoted to the commemoration of revered public figures was usually very lavish.
“Rappaccini’s flowers have always been grown under contract by middlemen in various parts of Australia.” Hal went on, while his fingers roamed in desultory fashion over his keyboards. “I’m checking the routes by which seeds used to be delivered, trying to backtrack them to the laboratories of origin, but he hasn’t put out anything new in thirty years. His agents are still making up wreaths and crediting him with royalties, but they’ve had no personal contact since 2520. He still has a considerable credit balance, and he probably has more in accounts I haven’t identified yet. His last manifestation as an active electronic persona was in 2527. Incoming telephone calls have been handled since then by a simulacrum which doesn’t seem to have referred enquiries elsewhere. Our best hope of discovering the real person behind the network of sims is a thorough interrogation of the financial records. The real person has to have some means of recovering or redirecting credit accumulated by the dummy. I also have AIs trawling out the data relating to every recorded public appearance Rappaccini has ever made. We’ll pin him down, even if it takes a week. I have all the data in the world to work with—I just need time to find, extract, and combine the relevant items. If your artistic intuition throws up any other helpful suggestions, just let me know, and I’ll let loose another pack of data-hounds.”
“Mr. Wilde hasn’t been able to guess why Rappaccini should want to murder Gabriel King,” said Charlotte. “Do we have anything on a possible motive?”
“I’m investigating King’s background,” said Hal. “If there’s a motive there, I’ll find it. For the time being, I’m more interested in the method. We know that the murderer has to be a first-class genetic engineer, so I’ve got AIs looking at the people who have the necessary expertise, trying to eliminate them one by one. It’s not easy, of course—there are too many commercial engineers whose work involves the relevant technical skills. Even a structural engineer like Gabriel King might be able to adapt what he knew.”
“I don’t think so,” Oscar said, dubiously.
“Maybe not,” said Hal. “Naturally, we’ll start with the people whose expertise is most relevant. Walter Czastka—and yourself, of course, Dr. Wilde.”
“My life,” said Oscar, airily, “is an open book. I fear that the sheer profusion of data will test the stamina of your programs—but that may make it all the easier for them to eliminate me from consideration. The idea that Walter Czastka might be Rappaccini is too absurd to contemplate.”
“Why?” asked Charlotte.
“A matter of style,” said Oscar. “Walter never had any.”
“According to the database, he’s the top man in the field—or was.”
“I presume you mean that he has made more money than anyone else out of engineered flowers. Walter is a mass-producer, not an artist. I fear that if Rappaccini is leading a double life, you will not find his secret identity among the ranks of flower-designers. You’ll have to cast your net further afield. He might be an animal engineer, perhaps a human engineer … but there are thousands of experts in each category.”
“My AIs are indefatigable,” Hal assured him. He was interrupted by a quiet beep from one of his comcons. His fingers raced back and forth across the relevant keyboard for a few seconds while he stared thoughtfully at a screen half-hidden from Charlotte’s view. After half a minute or so, he said: “You might be interested to see this, Dr. Wilde.” He pointed to the biggest of his display screens, mounted high on the wall directly in front of them.
A picture appeared on the left of the screen. It showed a tall man with silver hair, a dark beard trimmed into a goatee, and a prominent nose. “Rappaccini in 2481,” Hal said. “Taken at the offices of his growers during an early meeting.” He pressed more keys and another image appeared in the center of the screen, showing two men side by side. One of them was clearly the same man whose image was already on the screen.
“Isn’t that…?” Charlotte began.
“I fear that it is,” said Oscar, regretfully. “I looked a lot older then, of course. Taken in 2505, I believe, at the Sydney Exhibition.”
It proves nothing that they’ve been photographed together, Charlotte thought. That may only be an actor, hired to lend flesh to the illusion. Somehow, though, she couldn’t quite believe it.
“It was 2505,” agreed Hal. A third picture appeared, again showing Rappaccini alone. “2520,” Hal said. “His last public appearance.”
Charlotte compared the three pictures. There was hardly any difference between them. The man had not undergone a full rejuvenation between 2481 and 2520, although he had probably employed light cosmetic reconstruction to maintain the appearance of dignified middle-age.
“If he really was born in 2420, he seems to have delayed rejuvenation far longer than usual,” said Hal, pensively. “He must have had a full rejuve very soon after the last picture was taken—I’ll get a program to trawl the records. A picture-search program might be able to connect up the face, but that kind of data’s very messy. It’s proving difficult to track the woman who visited Gabriel King’s apartment—there are plenty of cameras in the streets, but a bit of everyday make-up and a wig can cause a good deal of confusion. Faces aren’t as widely different as they used to be, now that so many people use light cosmetic engineering to follow fashion-trends. We’ll trace her eventually, but … again, it’s a matter of time.”
As he spoke, three signals began beeping and blinking within the space of a second’s hesitation, and his attention was in
stantly diverted. Charlotte and Oscar left the computer-man to the company of his assiduous AIs.
“It’s good to know,” observed Oscar, as the elevator carried them up, “that there are so many patient recording angels sorting religiously through the multitudinous sins of mankind. Alas, I fear that the capacity of our fellow men for committing sins may still outstrip their best endeavors.”
“On the contrary,” Charlotte retorted. “The crime rate keeps going down and down as the number of spy-eyes and bubblebugs scattered around the world goes up and up.”
“I spoke of sins, not crimes,” said Oscar. “What your electronic eyes do not see the law may not grieve about, but the capacity for sin will lurk in the hearts of men long after its expression has been banished from their actions.”
“People can do what they like in the privacy of their virtual realities,” she said. “There’s no sin in that.”
“If there were no sin in our adventures in imagination,” Oscar replied, evidently determined to have the last word, “there would be no enjoyment in them. It is mainly our sense of sin which sustains our appetite for virtual experience. No matter how perfect an image we present to the world, in our appearances and our actions, we are as vicious at heart as we have ever been. If you cannot understand that, my dear, I fear that you will never be a real detective.”
4
While he still had time to spare, Charlotte took Oscar to dinner in the IBI’s restaurant, where he decided that what his appetite demanded was Tournedos Béarnaise and a bottle of St. Emilion. IBI food technology was easily adequate to the task of meeting these requirements. Its beef was grown from a celebrated local tissue-culture which had long rejoiced in the pet name of Baltimore Bess: a veritable mountain of muscle, “rejuvenated” a hundred times or more by means of the techniques whose gradual perfection in the last two centuries had paved the way for the rejuvenation of human beings. The St. Emilion was authentic, although the whole Bordeaux region had been replanted as recently as 2430, when connoisseurs had decided that the native root-stocks had suffered too much deterioration due to the environmental degradations of the Third Biotech War.
The Year's Best SF 12 # 1994 Page 93
