She stopped and looked up at me. “Am I going on too long, Professor Sanko? It's one of my favorite topics. I wasn't sure just where your interest lies."
I adjusted my glasses with a gloved hand. “Well, ah, Miss Chandler, perhaps we can put away this remarkable document and discuss the subject further over a cup of coffee?"
* * * *
The warmth of the coffee shop and the coffee took some of the library's humid chill out of me, and the clink of plates and the murmur of conversation were a nice contrast to the austere hush of the Beinecke. Ann Chandler was a nice person, I decided, but I couldn't help wondering what she was like when she let her hair down. I was listening to her talk as I spread cream cheese on a bagel.
“Many believe that even a resourceful forger and mountebank like Kelley would be incapable of producing the Voynich. In 2003, Gordon Rugg from Keele University in Britain published a paper in Nature that claimed to reproduce the features of the Voynich language using a Cardan grille."
I raised my eyebrows over my coffee cup to plead ignorance.
“It was invented in the sixteenth century by a Renaissance mathematician named Gerolamo Cardano as a device for decoding secret messages. It was simply a card with a series of holes cut out at selected places. To decrypt a message you laid the card over a page of some ‘carrier’ text and read out the message through the holes. Rugg used a Cardan grille over a prepared table of Voynich glyphs to generate a text with some, but not all, the traits of the Voynich manuscript. Rugg suggested that Kelley could have generated the Voynich text in that way with about three months of concerted effort. Many linguists are not buying it though. The Voynich is still defying analysis."
“Miss Chandler,” I said, trying to make conversation, “surely the Voynich doesn't dominate all your life. What occupies your leisure time, if you don't mind a personal question?"
She was in mid-sip and wrinkled her nose at the taste. “I play tennis, jog, and write poetry."
“What sort of poetry?"
“Pastoral odes, blank verse, a lot of personal things ... My boyfriend said I should paper the walls of my apartment with my rejection slips."
“So you are a poet. Any other interests?"
“I love to read, though my tastes aren't very discerning."
I took a bite of the bagel and chewed thoughtfully. “Best sellers, I suppose?” I said.
“Sometimes."
“You wouldn't have heard of something called The Voynich Verdict?"
“Oh, that!" she said and set her cup down hard, so that the spoon bounced out of the saucer. “Do you know that a faculty member here ... well, a former faculty member, co-authored that book?"
“Really?"
She nodded. “Pamela Roderick. I feel partly responsible. I provided her with most of the background materials. Neither Dr. Dietrich nor I had any idea that she was going to write a text about flying saucers."
I motioned to the waitress that we needed coffee refills. “So you worked with her for a while. Just out of curiosity, what sort of person was she?"
"She seemed normal enough. Rather pleasant, actually..."
“But...?"
Miss Chandler poured a packet of sweetener into her cup and stirred thoughtfully. “But that guy she brought with her."
“That would be her co-author?"
“I think so."
“What about him?"
“He had these stare-y eyes.” Ann Chandler suppressed a shudder.
* * * *
I switched the Professor of Comparative Linguistics ID for a press card made out for a prestigious science journal—another example of Quick Jerry's art. I lost the briefcase and glasses and pocketed a voice recorder and notepad. The Chemistry Department secretary glanced at my new credentials and picked up a phone. “Dr. Janeway, there's a gentleman here from Science Today who would like to talk to someone about Pamela Roderick."
Eliot Janeway, the dean of the department, was a larger than life figure—tall and big-boned, with lots of black hair, a full beard, and a booming voice—a youthful fifty, I estimated. He led me back into a cramped private office and closed the door. “I suppose this is about that new book of Pamela's. I understand it's making quite a media splash."
“Why, yes,” I said, “we're covering it as a news feature. Our readers generally expect some background when we deal with something a little ... flippant."
Janeway leaned back in a leather swivel chair, lacing his hands behind his head. “Actually, its not all that funny, Mr. Sinowitz.” He knitted black, shaggy eyebrows. “Pamela gave up a promising career in theoretical chemistry—modeling quantum chemical dynamics—for this strange pursuit. We were all a bit shocked when she turned in her resignation a few weeks ago."
“Where is she now? Do you know?"
“It was my understanding that she was due to begin a book signing tour this week. I think it's starting in New York City."
I took out the recorder, pad, and pencil. “You don't mind?” I asked.
“Not in the least; although I'm afraid if you're looking for reasons, I won't be able to supply any."
“Speculation, then?"
He fingered a ball and stick molecular model that had been serving as a paperweight. “We were all proud of her for that first book."
"Are We Ready?"
“Yes. I thought it was a tour-de-force of sociological speculation, well grounded in fact. The only eyebrows it raised around here were from those who hadn't bothered to read it. I remember thinking at the time: why shouldn't scientists occasionally step out of their field and contribute something noteworthy to the popular literature? After all, C.P. Snow wrote novels, Carl Djerassi writes plays, and physicists are always morphing into social commentators."
“That first book—did anyone in the Chemistry Department know about it while it was being written?"
“Well, I certainly didn't. Although, in retrospect, if I had, I would have encouraged her."
“It didn't affect her work, then?"
“Not in the slightest. In fact, we co-authored a paper in the Journal of Physical Chemistry around that time. Pamela was—is—a fine theoretical chemist."
“When the first book became such a publishing success were you at all concerned about how the accompanying notoriety would be perceived by the university administration and the student body?"
“You mean Pamela's interviews on Oprah and Letterman? I think most people around here were tickled pink about it. You know, she gave a faculty seminar on the topic of that first book at the chancellor's request."
“But the second book—that was quite different,” I offered.
“To say the least. Pamela began bringing around this fellow Marsh while they were working on that."
“What sort of person was this co-author, Reggie Marsh?"
“To be perfectly honest, I was never formally introduced, but he seemed a bit odd. I didn't pay a great deal of attention.” Janeway laughed. “We meet eccentrics fairly regularly in the theoretical sciences."
I made a series of squiggles on the notepad, trying to make it look like shorthand. “In what way was he odd?"
“In mannerisms more than in appearance I'd say. For one thing, he stood too close when he talked to you. I heard a couple of people joking about their personal space being violated. And apparently he was a compulsive talker once he got wound up. Lots of hand gestures—that sort of thing."
“What did he talk about?"
“I gather it was mostly about some sort of flying saucer society that he was involved with. Here—this appeared on my desk one morning.” He tossed me a brochure. “I understand that most of the Chemistry Department got one."
It looked to be composed with a desktop publishing program—a tri-folded sheet of copier paper printed on a low resolution ink jet color printer:
* * * *
CENTER FOR THE INVESTIGATION OF ANOMALOUS AERIAL PHENOMENA (CIAAP)
* * * *
A blurry black and white photo of some ova
l lights in a V-formation in the sky above a streetlight. The caption read, “What does the government know about this, and why is it being suppressed?” This was followed by a series of bulleted blurbs designed to catch the attention of the prospective true believer:
*An archive of over 1,000 UFO photographs
*Transcriptions of first person accounts of alien abductions
*Recently declassified government documents—Project Bluebook
*George Adamski Revisited
*A New Take on Erich von Daniken
*Is Shirley MacLaine still Out on a Limb?
* * * *
There was a New York P.O. address, a phone number, and a website domain address.
“Can I keep this?” I asked.
“Sure. Pretty far out stuff, huh?"
I pocketed the brochure. “Do you think Pamela Roderick has really bought into little green men?"
“Actually, I believe they're supposed to be gray with large lidless eyes.” Janeway was chuckling. “The main story is about the descendants of the religious sect returned to earth after a few centuries on a world in a star system forty seven light years away."
“You've read the second book then?"
He rummaged through a disorderly stack of books and papers on his desk. “I had it here somewhere .... But, yes, I read most of it. They make a pretty authentic-sounding case for an outrageous fabrication. As to Pamela's real beliefs, it's hard to say. Brilliant people have been known to be taken in by fortune tellers, spiritualists, charismatic leaders....” Again, he knitted his black shaggy brow. “You know, Mr. Sinowitz, if she's really putting us on, she's doing one hell of a job."
* * * *
The satellite internet connection for the laptop had been a little slow, but I managed to log on to the CIAAP website between bites of a Big Mac in the Yale parking garage. The calendar of New York City meetings showed nothing until the end of the month, so I hyperlinked to Marsh's e-mail address and typed:
* * * *
Dear Mr. Marsh:
I have been following your revelations avidly for some time now. I have vital new information that confirms your theories on the thirteenth century abductions. Please respond with a date, time, and location for a meeting.
Sincerely,
Samuel Roscoe
* * * *
Then I Googled Reggie Marsh. I didn't find anything too startling. He had published an article on cattle mutilations in the June 1989 issue of Kansas Farmer. Born in Topeka in 1966—that made him a boyish-looking forty-four. Graduated from Kansas State with a BA in Agriculture in 1987. Worked as a technician in a state government Ag Lab 1988 to 1993, then sold irrigation equipment the rest of the ‘90s. Published three more articles, all on alien abduction scenarios, in small circulation magazines. Helped to set up CIAAP in 2000 after moving to New York. Since then he has been the UFO feature editor of a weekly newspaper called Conspiracy Disclosure. Lists freelance writer as his current occupation.
Next, I searched the websites of the larger Manhattan bookstores. The Barnes & Noble on Fifth Avenue was announcing a Voynich Verdict book signing by Pamela Roderick tomorrow from 1:00 to 3:00 p.m. Finally, I reserved a room at the Plaza, figuring I'd earned a bit of luxury, and, after all, Pamela's old man was paying my expenses.
* * * *
Even people who hate Gotham have to admit that it's beautiful at night. Aerial views are popular, but it's at ground level that the splendor, the sleaze, and the chaos make for a real light show. The rented Mercury was an intruder here among a sea of yellow cabs, buses, and chauffeured limos.
I tossed the keys to the doorman at the hotel and pocketed a numbered ticket. I made about five steps across the lush lobby rug before a bellhop grabbed my suitcase and laptop.
The room overlooked the dark expanse of Central Park. It was furnished in French Provincial in a motif of Kelly green and burgundy with a turned-down king-size bed and three large overstuffed chairs. There was a small vase of fresh flowers on a half table before a gilt-framed oval mirror. I popped a chocolate from one of the pillows and rummaged through the service-bar, finally selecting a seven-dollar can of Heineken. I found the remote, crashed into one of the chairs, and turned on the wall-mounted flat-screen. Surfing through the channels proved a big waste of time, as I expected. I was just about to go back to a Rangers hockey game when I saw a close-up of Pamela Roderick.
It was the Jack Ratt Show. Ratt had black hair combed straight back, a gold earring, and a profile like a cigar store Indian. He was seated across an oak desk from Pamela Roderick, listening intently. I turned up the volume.
“—Georg Baresche, the earliest documented owner of the Voynich. He was an alchemist in Prague in the early 1600s. When he died, the manuscript passed to Jan Marek Marci, the rector of Charles University in Prague who promptly sent it to Athansius Kircher, a Jesuit scholar at the Collegio Romano in Italy. Marci's cover letter was still attached to the manuscript when Voynich found it. It is the source of the claim that Emperor Rudolph II had owned it in the previous century."
I had read somewhere that Jack Ratt, a relative newcomer, was going after Charlie Rose's audience. He leaned forward as he scanned prompter notes on the desktop screen. “And so how did the manuscript end up in the Villa Mondragone where Voynich found it?"
Pamela tossed back a wave of red hair. “It has been assumed that the manuscript remained in the archives of the Collegio Romano until Victor Emmanuel II's army captured Rome and the Papal States in 1870. Many Church properties were being confiscated by the new government, but a great number of books in the Collegio's library were transferred to the personal libraries of its faculty since these were immune to confiscation. Kirchner's papers became part of the private library of Petrus Beckx, the Rector of the school and the twenty-second General of the Jesuit Order. Beckx's library was later moved to the Villa Mondragone, which had been converted into another Jesuit school—the Collegio Ghisleri. In 1912, in need of funding, the Collegio decided to discreetly sell some of its manuscripts."
“Enter Voynich,” Ratt said.
“Yes,” Pamela agreed.
I sipped at the Heineken. This didn't sound like a girl who had taken a plunge off the deep end.
There was a pause—long for TV, which abhors a vacuum. Then Ratt said: “Ms. Roderick—Pamela, we've traced the provenance of this strange manuscript. Now what leads you to believe that it represents a record of extra-terrestrial contact?"
She cleared her throat and drank from a coffee mug, perhaps gathering her thoughts, then matter-of-factly said: “The Voynich contains illustrations of plant forms that never grew on earth. It contains astronomical charts that represent star patterns not seen from the earth's perspective. There are also symbols that have been associated with the Cathari, a religious sect that was persecuted in the thirteenth century. Those are established facts.” She paused, sighed, and continued. “We have good evidence to support the belief that the Voynich manuscript was intended as a holy book."
“A holy book?"
“Yes. Perhaps in the sense that Exodus recounts history, or a historical tradition. It is an account written by the returned progeny of the Cathari who had been abducted, or as we prefer, rescued, from Earth in the thirteenth century."
Ratt scanned the teleprompter notes. “What about the theory that some sixteenth century charlatan created the Voynich as a money-making hoax?"
Pamela smiled charmingly. “The manuscript may have been stolen and the hoax story may have been a cover-up. You see, the book was written by the first arrivals who were returned to Europe around 1500, roughly three and a half centuries after the Albingensian rescue. They were few in number—possibly less than ten individuals—and understandably cautious about their beliefs and history after the stories of the way their ancestors had been treated."
“Why were only a handful returned?"
“Only a few chose to return. Most preferred to remain at their new home."
“In the alien star system."
/>
“Yes."
Ratt looked directly at the camera. “We'll return to this fascinating story right after these messages."
I hit the mute button and took a pull on the Heineken. It was almost like the classic description of psychosis that psychoanalysts are cautioned about. Perfect, often brilliant rationality until the one subject is broached ... Some book publisher was making a windfall on Pamela's delusion. Or was she putting the world on? Certainly, with her old man's fortune in her future she wasn't trying to sell books for the royalties.
I noticed Ratt and Pamela were back and cancelled the mute.
“...exactly is or was Albingensianism?” Ratt was saying.
“A form of Gnosticism, some say it was strongly influenced by Manichaeism. It was a dualistic religion that posited that the Demiurge who created the Earth was Satan, who they identified with the God of the Old Testament. They rejected all worldly matters as part of the inherent evil of Creation. War, capital punishment—all taking of life was abhorrent to them. They also proclaimed a True God who dwelt in a realm of light and who could only be reached by a life of purity and asceticism. Many abstained from the consumption of all animal products and refused to take oaths, which were regarded as accepting the domination of the malevolent Creator."
Ratt widened his eyes at this. “I take it this was a short-lived phenomenon."
“Comparatively brief. The movement arose in the eleventh century in the Languedoc region of southern France. In the twelfth century it spread to Italy, Spain, and Germany, and to northern France. The adherents were called Cathars from the Greek for ‘pure ones.’ The lengthier appellation ‘Albingensians’ refers to a town called Albi that was a hotbed for the religion, but the movement had no real center. In 1176, the Catholic Church declared it a heresy, but missionary efforts to convert the Cathars failed. In 1209, a full-fledged crusade against Albingensianism was declared. The veterans of earlier crusades to liberate the Holy Land responded enthusiastically. It was close to home and there was the promise of land and plunder. The crusade proved to be a series of bloody massacres in which little distinction was made between heretics and loyal Catholics who inhabited the same regions. The attacks took place at intervals over twenty years. In 1229, the major aggression was over and the Inquisition was established to root out and execute the remaining recalcitrants. By the early fourteenth century the Albingensian movement had been wiped from the face of the Earth."
Analog SFF, April 2008 Page 3
