Sure enough, M. Poe was in Oakview B, sitting on the floor with a bagchair for a cushion, watching the wallscreen. Cunningham recognized the chip—one of Badger’s favorites—the Adventures of Jamie Hazard in the Port Said Riots of 2010.
“Hello,” Cunningham said over the gunfire on the soundtrack.
M. Poe looked up at him. “Ah! M. Cunningham. As I had hoped, you accurately interpreted my revised code.” He got up and tabbed off the Adventures of Jamie Hazard. The machinery gave the little whirs and clicks it made when returning a chip to storage behind the wall.
“You didn’t have to stop watching.”
“Candidly, I chose the story at random and did not find it enthralling.”
“Oh. Because it’s realizers’ stuff, huh?”
“Now, there is an interesting point,” said M. Poe. “Legally, we are all classified as fantasy perceivers until the age of thirteen, yet virtually all schoolchips are produced in the so-called realistic style, with period costumes and decorated sets.”
“Yeah! It’s like they know a lot of us kids are realizers, even if they don’t give us realizers’ rights.”
“Well, as to realizers’ rights…but never mind. In fact, more fanciers than you appear to think see much the same thing realizers see when they peruse screenshows.”
“They do?” Cunningham wanted to add, but didn’t, You’re making that up.
“It has to do with mindset. Those of us who think of screenshows as shrunken live theater, or who focus more on the element of motion than that of preservation, clothe them in personal trappings. A small but increasing number of us, however, accept screenshows as a sort of animated print medium and therefore see them as objectively as we see actual print and still pictures.”
The boy wasn’t sure he understood all those reasons, but he liked M. Poe for talking to him like a fellow grownup. “What kind are you?”
“At present, alas! a realizer.” M. Poe clapped his hand to Cunningham’s shoulder, not like an adult patting a kid’s head but like Jamie Hazard taking Yuri Yokamo for a drink after they dismantled the last bomb before the Rioters got there. “Shall we partake of refreshment?”
They went out to the vending machine, slid their chips and tabbed for colas and sodanuts. M. Poe stopped all of a sudden when he was reaching for his cola and just stood looking for a few seconds before he picked the deciliter cup up with his thumb and middle finger. Then he switched his vello of nuts out of the slot, looked at them, sighed, and shook his head. “For a moment, M. Cunningham, I flashed into my own world. This was a porphyry fountain from which I plucked a blown-glass goblet of sparkling wine.”
“What about the sodanuts?”
“I suspect them of being the catalyst that precipitated me back to standard reality. And yet, looked at as a member of the utilitarian species ‘vendingus machinus,’ this machine is a work of art.”
They went back to Grove B. “Then how come they do all fanciers’ screenshows plainstyle?” Cunningham asked, still suspicious.
“Partly thrift, I believe. It must be far less expensive to clothe every production in basic beige on stark steps than to design specifics for each. And partly because screenshows often ape the fashions of live theater. Even on a stage, however, many of us see realizers’ theater much as you see it, provided the play is set during or before our own eras. For example, I was always able to see anything costumed up to the Eighteen Forties inclusive with excellent accuracy, but anything costumed in a later period, my mind translated into futuristic phantasmagoria. Yet, presented with plainstyle live plays, we almost universally perceive them according to fancy, which frees the producers to spend their money on performers’ pay. Realizers’ theater may boast the showiest staging, but the finest acting is to be enjoyed in fancy-class productions.”
“Oh. How come you only keyed in ‘H and W’?”
“It occurred to me that ‘Holmes and Watson’ might tip our hand to the whole school. Besides, it would have been rather long to key five times.”
“You mean you went around and keyed ‘H and W, Oakwood B’ on every grovescreen? Heck, key it on any screen and it shows up automatically on all the others.”
“Oh?” The grownup looked kind of pleased. “That was not the case in my almas. Not, at least, to the best of my knowledge. We had either to arrange a rendezvous grove well in advance, or wander about checking each grove. Or so I always believed.”
“Didn’t you even see it on the other screens when you got to them after you keyed the first one?”
“No, and that removes a weight from my mind. I had already stretched a scruple by keying. Though capable, as it transpires, at need, I dislike keying electronic screens, on principle. Unlike you?”
Cunningham ate a couple of sodanuts. “What did you mean, about tipping off the whole school?”
“Such a code as ‘Holmes and Watson’ could very easily suggest to any passerby that someone is dabbling in amateur detection. As I understood when you were no longer in sight.”
“So what?”
“Amateur detection can prove very dangerous, M. Cunningham. Especially when a serious crime has in fact taken place. I know this by personal experience. It could have cost me my life—”
“Zow! What happened? Oh, I’m sorry—were you done? Did I cut in on you again?”
M. Poe sighed. “I believe I had completed the sentence, though perhaps not the final punctuation, which for optimum emphasis should have been an exclamation point. More sodanuts?”
“Uh, sure. Don’t you like ’em?”
“Not particularly.” The grownup slid his nearly full vellopac across the carpet to the boy. “I cherished some hope that they might turn into almonds for me, or at least pecans.” He took a drink of cola. “So you want to hear the whole story.”
Cunningham remembered his manners. “Not if you don’t want to tell me, no, M.”
“I don’t mind.” M. Poe waved his hand. “When newspapers were thick, it would have been food for the public. Today your princeps felt it would be best not to mention it, in view of circumstances—Is something wrong?”
Cunningham had sort of shivered a little. “Uh, nothing. I’m okay. It’s just, I’ve got to go to the princeps’ sanctum today after school. What happened to you?”
He still had sodanuts left at the end of M. Poe’s story, because sometimes he forgot to chew while he was listening. He even forgot about M. Sapperfield for a while.
Chapter 21
One down, two to go, Dave Click made a mental tally as he whistled his way out of the boys’ dressing room into the crowded between-sessions hall and pushed along to the school office, whistling louder, enjoying the sense of tykes parting before him like whitecaps before an ocean liner.
He’d made up his mind to co-star Wally the Big D Dutois and Ronald the Badger Badderley in a double interview. It might not be the way his senior would approach it, but you had to experiment a little, vary your techniques, or you risked stagnating and didn’t have much fun with your casework meanwhile. Besides, it would save time in the actual interview process, which was very handy since setting up a double called for an extra visit to M. Cage’s office aide. Dave could have rechecked both boys’ exact whereabouts via his notecom, but Gloriana Robotnik could probably do it much quicker on her schoolcom, without even watching the screen as her long fingers tapdanced over the keyboard.
* * * *
An invigorating ten minutes later, he collected Ronald Badderley from M. Fermi’s study class, Wallace Dutois from M. Lundgren’s remedial reading, and herded them to Grove A, Clearwater Group.
Wally Dutois was a tall, lanky twelve-year-old. At that age, most midschoolers classed as seniors, but Big D was listed as an official junior, which took dedicated downgrading in a system that allowed a whole fifth “postgrad” year, still called eighth grade as late as Dave Click’s school days, for catchi
ng up with any studies not completed by official graduation from what had once been designated the seventh grade. Dutois wore a belligerent expression, a tunic showing the comic panels’ Old Professor peeking out from between vertical stripes—a design that must border on breaking the school’s dress code—and shortcut blond hair with a fluff that suggested he washed it every day and a greenish tinge that suggested he used Seafoam or Karliss shampoo, probably after frequent immersions in chlorinated water. The kid had strength, too. Click felt it in the way he pulled back whenever the adult put a hand on his shoulder or wrist. No match for a full-grown, trained policeman, but it might have been a toss-up if they were both the same age.
Badger Badderley was quite a contrast. They’d make a good comedy duo. Badger’s nickname might come partly from his glasses—wide black frames holding lenses at least a centimeter thick. To Click, they made him look more like an owl, with a sleepy, innocent face that turned sly if you watched it long enough—though, to be fair, that might result from what they knew about his little collusions with his buddy Cunningham in the matter of alibis. The Badger’s black cowlicks obviously hid an egg-shaped skull: Badderly’s record showed that, though four months younger than Cunningham, he was a term ahead in language skills and social studies, and just about even in science, leaving his pal the edge only in math. After zipping through primeschool with two terms to spare, Badge had gotten into midschool at the earliest allowable age. He was pudgy and if he joined the gang for informal afterschool sports, he must be among the leftovers when sides chose up.
This would be even more interesting, thought Click, if I could wrap Cunny into it with them. Naw, Les would freeze me for the next two or three days. She’ll be hard enough to live with for a while if we do end up arresting him. Besides, he’s out on excused absence this session. Might take time to locate him.
Shutting the door of Clearwater Grove A, the polly stood with his back against it, tabbed the tapebox in his pocket, folded his arms, and looked down at the two boys. “Okay, M.’s, spill the beans.”
“Shove it up your exhaust,” said Big D.
“Look, stringbean, you’re in enough trouble without trying to give me any gakjam. Now let’s hear what you know.”
“About what, sir?” said Badger.
“You don’t need to ask, Badderley. Just unburden your conscience.”
“Look, how long is this going to take?” Dutois said with a sneer to warm your heart. “I want a cola.” He made a move toward the door, but Click shot one arm out like a bolt.
“Now, what kind of grilling would this be if I let you drink colas?” The policeman was enjoying himself. “Squeak first, guzzle later.”
Badderley hitched his glasses on his nose. “Sir, is it about Friday night?”
“Shut up, snitcher,” said Dutois.
“You’re getting warm, Badderley,” Click prompted him.
“Because all I know about Friday night—”
“Lay back, Badmitten,” Big D repeated his warning.
The younger boy looked at the older, adjusted his glasses again, and turned back to the policeman. “I knew that M. Cunningham was planning to camp out in the school building overnight, sir—”
“Snitch, snitch, snitch!” chanted Big D. “Your best buddy, too.”
Badger began, “I’m not—”
“Insulate it, both of you,” Click told them, going into override. “Okay, Badderley, you knew your pal was hiding out here Friday night. Did you know why?”
“Cotton your teeth, Badmitten,” said the older boy.
“Quiet, Dutois! Well, Badderley?”
The younger boy adjusted his glasses a third time, glanced at Big D, and half grinned. “It was a bet, sir—”
Big D lunged at Badger.
Click stepped between, Badger ducking behind him at the same time. Dutois made a grab at Click’s belt. Click held him off, and the kid fought back. He seemed to be all hands, snatching back as fast as the grownup could pry him loose.
Badger was trying to open the door. Click stepped back, jamming it shut with one elbow, and Dutois made another snatch at his belt. Suddenly Click understood the kid was grabbing for his stunner. Had it, in fact—had his fingers around it and was tugging it from the belt.
Click chopped down on the kid’s arm. Big D yelled and jumped back, clutching his wrist, as the loosened stunner flipped across the small room and hit the far wall. Badger gave up on the blocked door and dived for the stunner. Big D dived after him.
“Clam it!” Click shouted. They both seemed to freeze, but Big D only used the instant to stick his hand in his pocket. He whipstitched it out again next instant and came back down on the other kid with his fingers hooked like they were holding something.
Click straddled them even before he saw the glint between Big D’s fingers. Catching D’s hand by the wrist, he bent it back. For a second or two the kid continued to struggle.
“Okay, drop it,” Click told him.
“Ouch! Frig you, polly, you’re breaking my wrist!”
“It’s a temptation, Dutois. Drop it.”
The boy opened his fingers at last and let the glassy fragment fall. It landed on Badger’s tunic harmlessly, but the younger kid yelped a little anyway before gingering it into his own hand, readjusting his glasses—which must be better anchored behind his ears than you’d think—and wiggling out from underneath Big D.
“A bet with you, hey, Dutois?” Easing the angle tension without untightening his hold on the boy’s wrist, Click hauled him to his feet. “Okay, you fancy-class juvenile delinquent, I oughta drag you down to the Police Station. Maybe I will, later on. For now, shall we all just march down to the princeps’ sanctum? You, too, Badderley, and let’s have that now.”
Once out from under, Badge had found Click’s stunner. Things could still have taken a serious turn, but the younger boy was more cooperative than the older, or more scared. With no hint of rebellion, he dropped both the stunner and Big D’s fragment into Click’s free hand.
Starting to shut his fist, the policeman felt a sharp edge. He took time for a closer look. Dutois had attacked the younger boy with what appeared to be a large, square watch crystal with one end broken.
“Nasty little fingerweapon,” Click commented to Big D. “Did you chip it or file it down?”
“I found it,” the boy replied sullenly. “In the hall between the mosaic and Cagey’s office.”
“Okay. You might be telling the truth there.” Watch crystals didn’t break easily, but when they did, the cracks were usually nice and clean, like this one. “Too bad you didn’t start giving out straight answers earlier.”
Chapter 22
“But we aren’t playing amateur detective,” Cunningham said at last.
“No? I rejoice to hear it,” M. Poe replied. “But it might prove equally, and ironically, dangerous if someone merely thought we were.”
“Yeah, they’d talk about it maybe, but ...” All at once Cunningham felt his voice drop. “But it’d only be really dangerous if whoever pushed M. Sapperfield in, got that idea.”
M. Poe nodded.
“Yeah, but how’d they know it was us? They’d just see ‘Holmes and Watson’ on the grovescreen. It could be anybody. I’ll bet there’s lots of kids talking about what happened to M. Sapperfield.” Especially after Cunningham had spilled the scene himself to Homeroom Six first thing this morning. He glanced at the door. It was sound-soak plastiwood covered with photomural, so when it was shut it fit in with the walls to look like a real forest, but the rising sun on the door was a one-way mirror facing in. It was too high for most kids unless they stood on something. The idea was to give profs and monitors a spyhandle. Sometimes kids inside the grove stood on bagchairs and taped paper over the mirror, but they usually got caught.
“Oh, I believe we’ve covered our tracks well,” M. Poe said, stroking the wa
ll. “This absorbs normal speaking voices up to however many decibels in a shout, does it not?”
“Yeah. But that sun on the door’s a one-way mirror, and some of the kids say there’s listening holes if you know how to find ’em. Think we oughta open the door, so nobody can sneak up on us?”
“Indeed?” M. Poe stood up at the same time as Cunningham. “Allow me,” he went on, so the boy let him take care of the door. He studied it for a moment, peering through the sun from both sides. “So it is! I fail to detect listening holes on cursory examination, but, as you say, best be forewarned.” He left the door wide open and sat down again near it, where he could face Cunningham and look out at once. “Now, then—between us, do we have a fairly complete view?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Fortunate that anyone who may have crept up already would have learned we are not playing detective. Although if we were, this would be a safer and more secure way to share our confidences than via, say, phone or computer.”
“Computer?”
“I’ve heard somewhere that individuals occasionally leave messages for one another in some databank, set to appear when the designated recipient keys in name or other identification.”
“Oh, that. Yeah, but that’s stupid. Kidstuff.”
“Is it?”
Cunningham remembered the grownup was mostly fancier and didn’t understand stuff like this. “Look, all you’ve got to do to get messages out of the computer is tab in whoever’s name to whatever database and see if there’s anything there for them. Everybody’s name and Metterkranz print codes are on file in Names and Prints, but most databases don’t care about the Metterkranz for readout, just for signing up to get messages. So if you want to keep ’em secret, you’ve got to work up a code. But hardly any database will take extra codes unless they’re authorized, and if they’re authorized there has to be a list of them in the database, and if there’s a list someone can always get it out. So you just don’t want to feed in any messages for anybody unless you don’t mind who tabs ’em out and reads ’em.”
The Fanciers & Realizers MEGAPACK Page 39
