It was a good thing that, having survived the estrogen treatments, Alan had begun training again. He was very nearly as fit as in his early thirties. Suitcase in place, right arm tightly wrapped around Zeno’s midriff and grasping the man’s belt, Alan waltzed his friend down the hotel’s back stairs, emerging into a car park where, thank you Great Algorithmist, a cabbie was having a smoke.
”My friend Turing is sick,” said Alan, mustering an imitation of a Greek accent. “I want take him home.”
”Blind pissed of a Monday morn,” cackled the cabbie, jumping to his own conclusions. “That’s the high life for fair. And red spats! What’s our toff ‘s address?”
With a supreme effort, Alan swung Zeno into the cab’s rear seat and sat next to him. Alan reached into the body’s coat and pretended to read off his home address. Nobody seemed to be tailing the cab. The spooks were lying low, lest blame for the murder fall upon them.
As soon as the cab drew up to Alan’s house, he overpaid the driver and dragged Zeno to his feet, waving off all offers of assistance. He didn’t want the cabbie to get a close look at the crude honey-sticky beard on his chin. And then he was in his house, which was blessedly empty, Monday being the housekeeper’s day off. Moving from window to window, Alan drew the curtains.
He dressed Zeno in Turing pajamas, laid him out in the professor-ial bed, and vigorously washed the corpse’s face, not forgetting to wash his own hands afterwards. Seeking out an apple from the kitchen, he took two bites, then dipped the rest of the apple into a solution of potassium cyanide that he happened to have about the place in a jam jar. He’d always loved the scene in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs when the Wicked Witch lowers an apple into a cauldron of poison. Dip the apple in the brew, let the sleeping death seep through!
Alan set the poison apple down beside Zeno. A Snow White suicide. Now to perfect the imitation game.
He labored all afternoon. He found a pair of cookie sheets in the kitchen—the housekeeper often did baking for him. He poured a quarter-inch of his specially treated gelatin solution onto each sheet—as it happened, the gelatin was from the bones of a pig. Man’s best friend. He set the oven on its lowest heat, and slid in the cookie sheets, leaving the oven door wide open so he could watch. Slowly the medium jelled. Alan’s customized jelly contained a sagacious mixture of activator and inhibitor compounds; it was tailored to promote just the right kind of embryological reaction-diffusion computation.
Carefully wielding a scalpel, Alan cut a tiny fleck of skin from the tip of Zeno’s cold nose. He set the fleck into the middle of the upper cookie sheet, and then looked in the mirror, preparing to repeat the process on himself. Oh blast, he still had honey and hair on his chin. Silly ass. Carefully he swabbed off the mess with toilet paper, flushing the evidence down the commode. And then he took the scalpel to his own nose.
After he set his fleck of tissue into place on the lower pan, his tiny cut would keep on bleeding, and he had to spend nearly half an hour staunching the flow, greatly worried that he might scatter drops of blood around. Mentally he was running double-strength error-checking routines to keep himself from mucking things up. It was so very hard to be tidy.
When his housekeeper arrived tomorrow morning, Alan’s digs should look chaste, sarcophagal, Egyptian. The imitation Turing corpse would be a mournful memento mori of a solitary life gone wrong, and the puzzled poisoners would hesitate to intervene. The man who knew too much would be dead; that was primary desideratum. After a perfunctory inquest, the Turing replica would be cremated, bringing the persecution to a halt. And Alan’s mother might forever believe that her son’s death was an accident. For years she’d been chiding him over his messy fecklessness with the chemicals in his home lab.
Outside a car drove past very slowly. The brutes were wondering what was going on. Yet they hesitated to burst in, lest the neighbors learn of their perfidy. With shaking hands, Alan poured himself a glass of sherry. Steady, old man. See this through.
He pulled up a kitchen chair and sat down to stare through the open oven door. Like puffing pastry, the flecks of skin were rising up from the cookie sheets, with disks of cellular growth radiating out as the tissues grew. Slowly the noses hove into view, and then the lips, the eye holes, the forehead, the chins. As the afternoon light waned, Alan saw the faces age, Zeno in the top pan, Alan on the bottom. They began as innocent babes, became pert boys, spotty youths, and finally grown men.
Ah, the pathos of biology’s irreversible computations, thought Alan, forcing a wry smile. But the orotund verbiage of academe did little to block the pain. Dear Zeno was dead. Alan’s life as he’d known it was at an end. He wept.
It was dark outside now. Alan drew the pans from the oven, shuddering at the enormity of what he’d wrought. The uncanny empty-eyed faces had an expectant air; they were like holiday pie crusts, waiting for steak and kidney, for mincemeat and plums.
Bristles had pushed out of the two flaccid chins, forming little beards. Time to slow down the computation. One didn’t want the wrinkles of extreme old age. Alan doused the living faces with inhibitor solution, damping their cellular computations to a normal rate.
He carried the bearded Turing face into his bedroom and pressed it onto the corpse. The tissues took hold, sinking in a bit, which was good. Using his fingers, Alan smoothed the joins at the edges of the eyes and lips. As the living face absorbed cyanide from the dead man’s tissues, its color began to fade. A few minutes later, the face was waxen and dead. The illusion was nearly complete.
Alan momentarily lost his composure and gagged; he ran to the toilet and vomited, though little came up. He’d neglected to eat anything today other than those two bites of apple. Finally his stomach-spasms stopped. In full error-correction mode, he remembered to wash his hands several times before wiping his face. And then he drank a quart of water from the tap.
He took his razor and shaved the still-bearded dead Turing face in his bed. The barbering went faster than when he’d shaved Zeno in the hotel. It was better to stand so that he saw the face upside down. Was barbering a good career? Surely he’d never work as a scientist again. Given any fresh input, the halted Turing persecution would resume.
Alan cleaned up once more and drifted back into the kitchen. Time to skulk out through the dark garden with Zeno’s passport, bicycle through the familiar woods to a station down the line, and catch a train. Probably the secret police wouldn’t be much interested in pursuing Zeno. They’d be glad Zeno had posed their murder as a suicide, and the less questions asked the better.
But to be safe, Turing would flee along an unexpected route. He’d take the train to Plymouth, the ferry from there to Santander on the north coast of Spain, a train south through Spain to the Mediterranean port of Tarifa, and another ferry from Tarifa to Tangiers.
Tangiers was an open city, an international zone. He could buy a fresh passport there. He’d be free to live as he liked—in a small way. Perhaps he’d master the violin. And read the Iliad in Greek. Alan glanced down at the flaccid Zeno face, imagining himself as a Greek musician.
If you were me, from A to Z, if I were you, from Z to A...
Alan caught himself. His mind was spinning in loops, avoiding what had to be done next. It was time.
He scrubbed his features raw and donned his new face.
<
* * * *
Weinachtsabend
Keith Roberts
The big car moved slowly, nosing its way along narrowing lanes. Here, beyond the little market town of Wilton, the snow lay thicker. Trees and bushes loomed in the headlights, coated with driven white. The tail of the Mercedes wagged slightly, steadied. Mainwaring heard the chauffeur swear under his breath. The link had been left alive.
Dials let into the seatback recorded the vehicle’s mechanical wellbeing; oil pressure, temperature, revs, k.p.h. Lights from the repeater glowed softly on his companion’s face. She moved, restlessly; he saw the swing of yellow hair. He turned slightly. She was
wearing a neat, brief kilt, heavy boots, Her legs were excellent.
He clicked the dial lights off. He said, “Not much farther.”
He wondered if she was aware of the open link. He said, “First time down?”
She nodded in the dark. She said, “I was a bit overwhelmed.”
Wilton Great House sprawled across a hilltop five miles or more beyond the town. The car drove for some distance beside the wall that fringed the estate. The perimeter defences had been strengthened since Mainwaring’s last visit. Watch-towers reared at intervals; the wall itself had been topped by multiple strands of wire.
The lodge gates were commanded by two new stone pillboxes. The Merc edged between them, stopped. On the road from London, the snow had eased; now big flakes drifted again, lit by the headlights. Somewhere, orders were barked.
A man stepped forward, tapped at the window. Mainwaring buttoned it open. He saw a GFP armband, a hip holster with the flap tucked back. He said, “Good evening, Captain.”
“Guten Abend, mein Herr. Ihre Ausweis Karte?”
Cold air gusted against Mainwaring’s cheek. He passed across his identity card and security clearance. He said, “Richard Mainwaring. Die rechte Hand zu dem Gesanten. Fräulein Hunter, von meiner Abteilung.”
A torch flashed over the papers, dazzled into his eyes, moved to examine the girl. She sat stiffly, staring ahead. Beyond the Security officer Mainwaring made out two steel-helmeted troopers, automatics slung. In front of him, the wipers clicked steadily.
The GFP man stepped back. He said, “In einer Woche, Ihre Ausweis Karte ist ausgelaufen. Erneuen Sie Ihre Karte.”
Mainwaring said, “Vielen Dank, Herr Hauptmann. Frohe Weihnacht.”
The man saluted stiffly, unclipped a walkie-talkie from his belt. A pause, and the gates swung back. The Merc creamed through. Mainwaring said, “Bastard.…”
She said, “Is it always like this ?”
He said, “They’re tightening up all round.”
She pulled her coat round her shoulders. She said, “Frankly, I find it a bit scary.”
He said, “Just the Minister taking care of his guests.”
Wilton stood in open downland set with great trees. Hans negotiated a bend, carefully, drove beneath half-seen branches. The wind moaned, zipping round a quarterlight. It was as if the car butted into a black tunnel, full of swirling pale flakes. He thought he saw her shiver. He said, “Soon be there.”
The headlamps lit a rolling expanse of snow. Posts, buried nearly to their tops, marked the drive. Another bend, and the house showed ahead. The car lights swept across a facade of mullioned windows, crenellated towers. Hard for the uninitiated to guess, staring at the skilfully weathered stone, that the shell of the place was of reinforced concrete. The car swung right with a crunching of unseen gravel, and stopped. The ignition repeater glowed on the seatback.
Mainwaring said, “Thank you, Hans. Nice drive.”
Hans said, “My pleasure, sir.”
She flicked her hair free, picked up her handbag. He held the door for her. He said, “OK, Diane?”
She shrugged. She said, “Yes. I’m a bit silly sometimes.” She squeezed his hand, briefly. She said, “I’m glad you’ll be here. Somebody to rely on.”
* * * *
Mainwaring lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Inside as well as out, Wilton was a triumph of art over nature. Here, in the Tudor wing where most of the guests were housed, walls and ceilings were of wavy plaster framed by heavy oak beams. He turned his head. The room was dominated by a fireplace of yellow Ham stone; on the overmantel, carved in bold relief, the hakenkreuz was flanked by the lion and eagle emblems of the Two Empires. A fire burned in the wrought-iron basket; the logs glowed cheerfully, casting wavering warm reflections across the ceiling. Beside the bed a bookshelf offered required reading; the Fuehrer’s official biography, Shirer’s Rise of the Third Reich, Cummings’ monumental Churchill: the Trial of Decadence. There were a nicely bound set of Buchan novels, some Kiplings, a Shakespeare, a complete Wilde. A side table carried a stack of current magazines; Connoisseur, The Field, Der Spiegel, Paris Match. There was a washstand, its rail hung with dark blue towels; in the corner of the room were the doors to the bathroom and wardrobe, in which a servant had already neatly disposed his clothes.
He stubbed his cigarette, lit another. He swung his legs off the bed, poured himself a whisky. From the grounds, faintly, came voices, snatches of laughter. He heard the crash of a pistol, the rattle of an automatic. He walked to the window, pushed the curtain aside. Snow was still falling, drifting silently from the black sky; but the firing pits beside the big house were brightly lit. He watched the figures move and bunch for a while, let the curtain fall. He sat by the fire, shoulders hunched, staring into the flames. He was remembering the trip through London; the flags hanging limp over Whitehall, slow, jerking movement of traffic, the light tanks drawn up outside St. James. The Kensington Road had been crowded, traffic edging and hooting; the vast frontage of Harrods looked grim and oriental against the louring sky. He frowned, remembering the call he had had before leaving the Ministry.
Kosowicz had been the name. From Time International; or so he had claimed. He’d refused twice to speak to him; but Kosowicz had been insistent. In the end, he’d asked his secretary to put him through.
Kosowicz had sounded very American. He said, “Mr. Mainwaring, I’d like to arrange a personal interview with your Minister.”
“I’m afraid that’s out of the question. I must also point out that this communication is extremely irregular.”
Kosowicz said, “What do I take that as, sir? A warning, or a threat?”
Mainwaring said carefully, “It was neither. I merely observed that proper channels of approach do exist.”
Kosowicz said, “Uh-huh. Mr. Mainwaring, what’s the truth behind this rumour that Action Groups are being moved into Moscow?”
Mainwaring said, “Deputy-Fuehrer Hess has already issued a statement on the situation. I can see that you’re supplied with a copy.”
The phone said, “I have it before me. Mr. Mainwaring, what are you people trying to set up? Another Warsaw?”
Mainwaring said, “I’m afraid I can’t comment further, Mr. Kosowicz. The Deputy-Fuehrer deplored the necessity of force. The Einsatzegruppen have been alerted; at this time, that is all. They will be used if necessary to disperse militants. As of this moment, the need has not arisen.”
Kosowicz shifted his ground. “You mentioned the Deputy-Fuehrer, sir. I hear there was another bomb attempt two nights ago, can you comment on this?”
Mainwaring tightened his knuckles on the handset. He said, “I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed. We know nothing of any such incident.”
The phone was silent for a moment. Then it said, “Can I take your denial as official?”
Mainwaring said, “This is not an official conversation. I’m not empowered to issue statements in any respect.”
The phone said, “Yeah, channels do exist. Mr. Mainwaring, thanks for your time.”
Mainwaring said, “Goodbye.” He put the handset down, sat staring at it. After a while he lit a cigarette.
Outside the windows of the Ministry the snow still fell, a dark whirl and dance against the sky. His tea, when he came to drink it, was half cold.
The fire crackled and shifted. He poured himself another whisky, sat back. Before leaving for Wilton, he’d lunched with Winsby-Walker from Productivity. Winsby-Walker made it his business to know everything; but he had known nothing of a correspondent called Kosowicz. He thought, ‘I should have checked with Security.’ But then Security would have checked with him.
He sat up, looked at his watch. The noise from the range had diminished. He turned his mind with a deliberate effort into another channel. The new thoughts brought no more comfort. Last Christmas he had spent with his mother; now, that couldn’t happen again. He remembered other Christmases, back across the years. Once, to the child unknowing, they had
been gay affairs of crackers and toys. He remembered the scent and texture of pine branches, closeness of candlelight; and books read by torchlight under the sheets, the hard angles of the filled pillowslip, heavy at the foot of the bed. Then, he had been complete; only later, slowly, had come the knowledge of failure. And with it, loneliness. He thought, ‘She wanted to see me settled. It didn’t seem much to ask.’
The Scotch was making him maudlin. He drained the glass, walked through to the bathroom. He stripped, and showered. Towelling himself, he thought, ‘Richard Mainwaring, Personal Assistant to the British Minister of Liaison.’ Aloud he said, “One must remember the compensations.”
He dressed, lathered his face and began to shave. He thought, ‘Thirty-five is the exact middle of one’s life.’ He was remembering another time with the girl Diane when just for a little while some magic had interposed. Now, the affair was never mentioned between them. Because of James. Always, of course, there is a James.
The Mammoth Book of Alternate Histories [Anthology] Page 25
