“In other words,” Click explained, “she’s after an exclusive interview.”
“I don’t care about ‘exclusive’!” she snapped. “You should know me better than that, Junior Sergeant. All I care about is ‘accurate’ and ‘truthful.’ And ‘first.’ Yes, first rights would be nice, M. Poe. Very nice. Just give me one week to file my story first, and after that you can resell it to everyone you want. The more the better. All I ask is that you don’t give out mutually contradictory statements.”
“You make it sound as though I might contrive to make a popular success of it by writing my own account at book length.”
“Fine! Do that. The more publicity, the better for the cause. That’s what I care about, Dave. Getting things changed for the better. Not some flash-on-the-screen ‘exclusive’ to be buried and forgotten in a few weeks. Just don’t go changing your testimony on me, M. Poe.”
“To the best of my ability, I shall be consistent. And it ought to go without saying that you will have my first interview on the subject. Giving you a vested interest in my safe re-emergence. May I take it that you have come, not merely to solicit the interview, but to brief me further on such details of Lord Moan’s life, crime, and trial as may behoove me to memorize?”
“First off,” said Click, “don’t forget the mole on your left jawbone.”
Corwin stroked his jaw. “I have decided that it shall be, as often popularly theorized, a beauty patch. Thus, should it rub off or I forget to wear it, my safety ought not to be imperiled.”
“The real Moan’s is an authentic mole,” said Click. “Big, almost black, and shaped almost like the state of Maine, if you look real close.”
“That should hardly matter, provided none of the other inmates knows the fact.”
“M. Click only knows it from the police report,” said M. Liberty. “Whether it’s real or artificial isn’t obvious even when you see Lord Moan in person. If anything, you’d think it was probably another costume accessory.” She had been digging in her shoulderbag. As Corwin finished determining its petit-point design to be the early “Don’t Tread on Me” flag, the reporter pulled out two large, thick, Nineteenth-Century style playing cards and handed them to him. “How’s your computer literacy, M. Poe?”
“Variable. I assume that M. Click has filled you in on my peculiar perceptional complaint? As a realizer, I have cautiously relearned my childhood skills of inserting dataforms, calling up chosen texts to the screen, tabbing for printouts, even playing the occasional screengame. When fully back in my own perceptional world—as now—I sometimes experience difficulty in so much as recognizing keyboards and computer screens. These, I take it,” he amplified, turning the cards curiously in his fingers, “are standard dataforms, but in my present mode I perceive them as the Ace and Queen of Spades.”
“The Queen?” said Click. “Not the King or the Jack? ‘Knave’ would probably be better—what Moan would likely call it. Not even the Joker?”
“Pushkin’s Pikovaya Dama, maybe,” suggested M. Liberty. “Or she might symbolize the late Lady Moan. Is your fantasy mode going to last all evening, M. Poe?”
“My present circumstances render it difficult to predict, but to my recollection, the longest it’s lasted with no break at all, since the traumatic episode, has been thirty-six hours.”
“We’d better make him printouts, Dave.”
Corwin handed the cards to Click and watched with interest as the policeman inserted the Ace into some obscure slot in the brass bookrest, then drummed his fingertips on its shiny surface. Almost soundlessly, the frame of the antique landscape by some as-good-as-anonymous painter began spewing forth a printed sheet.
“One of them,” said the reporter, “is the transcript of Moan’s actual trial to date—that is, until the court recessed this afternoon. The other has everything about Moan that can be netted out of the public records—which isn’t much—and the way I’ve finished up the court coverage, as it’s being fed into the Hummingbird Hill system, starting this afternoon.”
“And she’s done one glove of a splice,” said Click, “considering the real trial isn’t her story and didn’t even much interest her until my phone calls after lunch today.”
“Sam Serif’s got an easy style to imitate,” the reporter answered with openly false modesty. “And Hilmar isn’t paying badly for one afternoon’s hackwork. Money is always an incentive, even for crusaders like me. Another incentive is that even if this never goes beyond its very small captive audience, they ought to have good literary taste. Of course, only the installment that just went into Hilmar’s Hummingbird Hill line half an hour ago has been fully polished. Tomorrow morning’s crucial installment is still more or less rough draft. But the actual data won’t change, only some of the wording.”
“It says mainly,” Click added, “that the jury came back in record fast time, that sentencing followed with its usual humane twenty-first century immediacy, and that, since your lordship had already selected Hummingbird Hill in the event of a ‘Guilty’ verdict, you’ll be on your way direct from the courthouse. They’ll read it just about in time to plan whatever kind of reception they give new arrivals. Would your lordship prefer these sheets separated, or rolled up in a scroll?”
Corwin gave it a moment’s consideration. “Separated. And, I think, instabound in covers, if this machine has the accessories for it. The entire trial, including M. Liberty’s apocryphal ending, in one volume, if you please.”
“Roger.” Whistling, Click tapped the bookstand again. The first printsheet dropped away from the bottom of the frame, neatly severed by an inner blade.
“It looks to me,” M. Liberty remarked, unfolding the brochure-glider, “as if we’re none too early bringing you extra reading matter.”
“Actually, I’ve quite a bit already.” He gently thumped the top book of Peak’s trilogy, his own old, simleather-bound realprint copy of the edition of 2039, with added illustrations by Thomasina Pavlok in the style of Peake. “Rereading, however. Boning up—cramming a bit. I last read it through about a year and a half ago; I was taking a brief rest from restudying it when you arrived.”
“I can’t read the titles from here,” said the reporter, “but if that’s the work I suppose it is, the self-styled Seventy-First Earl of Worminglass probably rereads it nonstop, and has his own set of adaptations and variations all worked out to the letter.”
“Yes, no doubt the rituals may vary somewhat between Gormenghast and Worminglass. Nevertheless, neither earl could ever manage to remember all the salient details. Only his Master of Ritual could do that, and not even he without continual access to a vast number of cumbrous reference volumes. So I should contrive to bluff my way through well enough on that score. If I should encounter another Peake enthusiast inside, I shall adopt him or her as my Master or Mistress of Ritual, and give myself over to being directed.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it,” said the reporter. “I haven’t read that thing since my one trimester in a fancy-class university. All I remember is that somebody got eaten by owls.”
“I never read it,” said Click. “I channeled into realizers’ school straight from middle college.”
“One trimester in a fancy-class university is required for Journalism majors,” she informed him. “In my opinion, it should be required for everybody, especially pollies. I’d have thought you’d find this very instructive, M. Poe,” she added, changing the subject as she examined the Hummingbird Hill brochure.
“In a limited way. I would find it far more so if a guest list were appended.”
“The real Moan won’t get one,” said Click.
“Which strikes me as curious. If Hilton-Maracott is so anxious to prevent undue social friction, lists of the guests already in residence would appear rather more important than lists of the facilities within the various security hotels.”
“I agree with you,”
said the reporter. “I believe the rationale has something to do with the idea that such lists may remind the future inmate that ‘Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here’ is writ large, figuratively if not actually, on the gate of every security hotel, public or private.”
“I think it has more to do with privacy guidelines, myself,” said Click. “Prof Prestissimo—that’s the music teacher who goes in three times a week—says some of them have adopted new names, just for use among themselves. Anyway, I gave you the Hummingbird Hill guest register this afternoon, your lordship. Along with the list of clockround staff. Took you over and showed you all their holographs, too.”
“You did indeed, M. Click. During our walk through Volshays Park afterward, Angela was idly folding the printout sheet when a sudden gust snatched it from her rosy digits and bore it into the swift-flowing current.” Corwin was taking poetic liberties with the incident. In fact, he was fairly sure that she had thrown it into the river on purpose, and that a wife of less even temperament might first have torn it into tiny shreds, to signify her opposition to the whole project. “And so,” he concluded, “having recognized none of the faces and few of the names—and those few by repute only—I am little better off now, in that respect, than is the real Elegius, Lord Moan.”
“Which ones do you remember?” Click asked.
Corwin closed his eyes. “M.’s Withycombe and Magadance, of course, as two of our known principals. Then there were of course Mad Doctor Macumber, M.’s Logefeil and Siddiqui, ‘Warden’ Warren, one John Stock—that name seems to chime some faint literary bell in my head—M. Susan Silkiss ...” He opened his eyes to see Click grinning.
“Here,” said the policeman, holding up a Ten of Clubs. “Not only the full roster, but their police files and the newsdatamorgue capsules on their trials. Now you know how I spent the rest of my afternoon and evening, while you were strolling through the park and chumming it up over dinner with the local Hilmar bigfrogs.”
“Intriguing,” Corwin observed. “I see a ten-spot, but this time the suit is clubs rather than spades.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll printout this little baby for your lordship, too. Better study fast. You’ve only got tonight. We can send regular published books in with you, but these printouts would be a dead giveaway if anybody found ’em in your rooms.”
Inside the gilt frame, the invisible cutter automatically whickered again and one more printed sheet joined the growing pile atop the desk.
“May I,” said Corwin, “or, rather, may the hotel offer you some refreshment? I fear that they have blanked room telephone service, not that I should recognize a telephone in any case just at present; and you have the computer engaged. But they’ve guaranteed me that my guards will be happy to phone Room Service on my behalf.”
“Thought you’d never ask!” said Click. “A nice, juicy H-M Special ground ham-and-realbeefburger, about four centimeters thick, on grilled rye, with a double order of mixed deepfry and—just because I’m officially off-duty—a bigthirst stein of the house bock.”
“Which, in this house, will presumably be several grades above his usual Heimendorff,” said M. Liberty, “as well as on tap rather than canned or bulbed. But I’ll stick with Chablis and a fruit and cheese nibbletray. Well, David?”
The policeman grinned. “Lissy just loves to nudge me. Here, your lordship.” Taking a small book from his pocket, he handed it to Corwin. “Promised I’d pass this on to you as soon as you offered us something from Hilmar’s famous Room Service.”
It was a duodecimo volume, bound in half morocco over marbled boards, of Peake’s poems. Laid in, its edge peeking above the closed pages, was a sheet of folded pink notepaper which Corwin immediately withdrew, unfolded, and scanned. It said only:
“Don’t forget to tell them your food allergies.
Angela”
He had none, as such, but there were still two or three dishes which, when he was in reality mode and recognized them, he disliked to the point of getting them down only with difficulty. He flattered himself that he could manage them well enough for the sake of etiquette, but Angela teased him sometimes with his face having betrayed his distaste. Should it happen in the security hotel, it would betray the fact that he wasn’t always a fantasy perceiver; but he had only to register his strongest distastes in advance as food allergies to ensure that he would not be served them.
The advice was both timely and practical. But, above all, it came from her. She had found means to send it. For the first time since his guests’ arrival, he looked forward to their departure. Now, in addition to his reams of necessary study, he would have something precious to ponder.
Chapter
Except for the McEverywhere chain places, there didn’t seem to be any cheap restaurants in Nostalgia City, only expensive, more expensive, and outrageous. Thinking fondly of Marchpane’s, Rosemary Lestrade settled down in a walled cubicle at the Contented Sumoist, flexed her stocking feet in the Westerners’ well beneath the table, and asked for sake and sushi right away, along with the menu. It was getting almost too late for dinner, but she didn’t think her stomach would have accepted another Little Mac leadlumps meal. Pat Harihoto of the NCPD recommended the Sumoist as a good place in the merely expensive class, where the atmosphere was tranquil and the kitchen wasn’t usually “out” of too many things. “Just make sure they know you’re a reality perceiver, or your sushi could be sardines.”
She might have accepted Pat’s offer of a home-cooked meal, but he and his wife had five kids. Two by birth permit, three adopted. Between the ages of three and eleven. Not the kind of distraction Lestrade felt she could handle tonight, even if it would have meant eating her big meal at a reasonable hour.
When she had gotten to Nostalgia City and located the Pepper Pot, it was closed, with a “Family Funeral” notice on the door. Closed, she hoped, for the day, not the weekend. Or permanently, with the alleged death in the family as a cover to leave town. And if it was legitimate ... what a blasted complication! Getting data out of grieving survivors wasn’t Lestrade’s favorite part of police work.
Not that she had a favorite part, just some parts she disliked less than others. The best thing about it, the only thing (besides finding lost children) she could have called a favorite part, the only thing that kept her with it, was clearing innocent suspects. And even that usually meant somebody else was guilty, some floater that more often than not they still had to go out and catch.
So she was hoping a decent meal, only moderately overpriced, all to herself in a nice restaurant, followed by an operetta or two on the hotelroom screen, might help her relax. She always kept half a dozen favorite uppers in a chipcase in her suitcase. Patience, Cenerentola, Seraglio, Italian Straw Hat, The Amfalula Tree, and Roxy O’Bannion. Or she could look through the hotel’s index. Even the cheapest accredited lodging in any town this size—let alone Nostalgia City—would have several thousand screenshows available through the local Public Accommodations Registry library. But nothing about crime and nothing melancholy. When she was too deep in casework, which was most days of the year, Iolanthe was too melancholy for her, Fledermaus too heavy with crime and jail.
The trouble was, much as she disliked her work, she lived it. She couldn’t just leave it after putting in her stress-hours. Dave Click seemed to have it all over his senior partner that way. There were times Lestrade thought she’d slap down her badge right after “this case”—but which case? There were always a slew of them ongoing, and their beginnings and endings always overlapped. The ones that really ended, that didn’t just get filed away with the symbol meaning maximum budgeted number of stress-hours had gone into them.
She knew she’d never be able to walk away from it. Maybe she could have, in the years between the week when, still a kid, she’d gotten falsely accused of a schoolroom theft and made up her mind what she was going to do with her life, and the day she finally enrolled in Pollytech. Bu
t she couldn’t walk away from it now. If she tried taking midcareer retirement, she’d carry the work with her. Her mind would itch every time any crime news came onscreen. It already itched too often over other pollies’ cases. Retired, in six months she’d be one of those pitiful creatures, a failed polly turned private investigator. Or, even worse, a cottage busybody solving crimes as a hobby. One fringe benefit of putting five years or more on the force was carrying an automatic “amateur investigator’s” license into retirement; the only way to escape it was to get yourself fired in official disgrace. Or killed in the line of action, which was rare these essentially law-abiding days.
Sipping her warm sake, she gave up trying to hum “Roxy’s Theme” to herself and went back to chewing her mental cud. Three days after arresting Truemeasure, the policewoman had risked a one on one interview in the cell. Always a tricky and officially discountenanced procedure. Anytime the suspect put in a charge of police brutality or irregularity during a one on one encounter, the polly was automatically considered in the wrong, no matter what the character records were of the two people involved, no matter even if there’d been a clear window for any passing witness to look through. Just as at one time any driver making a left-hand turn had automatically been to blame no matter what the other circumstances of the accident.
Lestrade had made herself something of a living legend around her own station by risking more one on one interviews than any of her colleagues, and so far no suspect had ever put in a charge against her. But she always screened the suspect and the circumstances pretty carefully first, and she didn’t very often try it when, like now, she’d already been cast as M. Meanpolly.
The Fanciers & Realizers MEGAPACK Page 159
