Ratt produced The Voynich Verdict and opened it to a bookmark. “But—according to your book—not from this distant world of aliens."
“That's right,” Pamela said. “Alien visitors rescued approximately one hundred Cathars and transported them to their home world. Then, slowly, starting in the 1500s and continuing sporadically up until today a few of their progeny have chosen to return to earth."
I shut off the TV and tossed the remote onto the bed where I had placed the laptop. On a lark, I got up and decided to check my e-mail. And it was there—Marsh had taken the bait:
* * * *
Dear Mr. Roscoe:
Your communication has piqued my interest.
Call me at (212) 555—4949.
Reggie Marsh
* * * *
This was too good—a New York City area code. I dialed and got Manny's Pub in the East Village. Yes, they had a Reggie. When they got him, his voice sounded normal enough, although the bar was noisy and there was theremin music in the background.
“Mr. Marsh, I can't believe my good fortune,” I said. “Yes, I'm in Manhattan. I'll catch a cab and be right down."
* * * *
On the way, I couldn't help thinking that only barfly characters out of William Saroyan give a saloon as their personal phone number. When the cabbie found the place I was reminded of the warlock hangout in Bell, Book, and Candle, only this one was devoted to “UFOlogy.” A cardboard little green man with an “LGM” monogrammed spacesuit was propped against the window where a Coors Light neon glowed. As I stepped in I noted that the motif continued with a muted TV tuned to the Sci Fi Channel and a pole dancer in silver tights and space helmet grinding to the Star Trek theme. The place was jammed with a mix of college kids and strange—some really strange—older folk. I nudged my way to the bar and caught the eye of a blond-bearded barkeep. “You got a Reggie around here?"
He pointed across the room where a circle of chairs surrounded a podium—or was it a karaoke machine? The central figure was the Hanks/Stern image I'd seen on the dust jacket of The Voynich Verdict. He was holding court among a group of true believers—mostly young, twenties, but a few old-timers. They all held glasses or beer bottles in their hands. I drifted over, but stood back a ways and listened.
“Let's only talk about confirmed third kind encounters,” he was saying. “I don't know about you, but I'm not particularly interested in moving lights in the sky. Some of those sightings really are weather balloons, bolides, sundogs, whatever else the Air Force claims. What I want to talk about are the documented landings or crashes of alien spacecraft. I'm referring to Roswell, New Mexico, July 8, 1947; Levelland, Texas, November 2, 1957...” He was ticking items off on his fingers. “...Kecksburg, Pennsylvania, December 9, 1965; Shag Harbor, Nova Scotia, October 4, 1967; Berwin Mountain in North Wales, January 23, 1974; Rendelsham Forest in Suffolk, England, December 26, 1980. These are landings, ladies and gentlemen, landings and crashes."
Some young girl among the circle of listeners hesitantly raised her hand.
“Yes! Debbie has a question!"
“How could the aliens fly all the way from—wherever—and crash making a routine landing?” This was followed by groans from several of the faithful.
Marsh held up a palm. “Please. She's new here. Crashes, like Roswell, are rare events, but they do occur because the aerodynamics of our atmosphere are quite different than the windless plains of the home world. Also, such crashes tend to draw attention, while hundreds of routine landings over the centuries have gone unnoticed.” He stopped and smiled at the girl, who seemed embarrassed. “Does that answer your question?"
She summoned her courage. “Still,” she said, “if they're so advanced, wouldn't they have computers or something to compensate...?"
Marsh adopted the air of a patient teacher to a particularly dull child. “The Roswell event—the only confirmed crash because the craft and the remains of the aliens and their human passengers were recovered—was likely due to an equipment malfunction or to pilot error. We've manufactured automobiles in this country for over a century, but there are still fifty thousand deaths each year on our highways.” He spread his hands. “Accidents happen, Debbie, even to aliens."
This was followed by a scatter of clapping from the assembly of the faithful.
Marsh's gaze now scanned the circle of chairs. “Does anyone else have a question before I go on?” He paused to look down at some note cards. “If not, I'd like to discuss the eight decades of Air Force cover-ups...."
I raised a hand. “Mr. Marsh!"
He shielded his eyes and squinted out at me through the bar's smoke and gloom. “Yes?"
“Sam Roscoe, Mr. Marsh. We spoke on the phone."
“Oh ... yes,” he murmured, then turned to his audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, please excuse me for just a few moments.” He pocketed his index cards and walked over to me.
I offered a hand. His was cold and limp, and he smelled of sandalwood cologne. “A pleasure to meet you,” I said.
“I have very little time, Mr. Roscoe, as you can see. I'm meeting my fiancée, Miss Roderick, for dinner and I'm in the midst of an invited lecture. Please be brief.” At close range and in the dim light he looked a bit cadaverous. The black pants and turtleneck did nothing for his image, I decided.
“Ah, well, what I have to say should interest you both. Perhaps you would let me buy you both dinner."
He went for it and walked back to his audience. I headed for the bar where the bored-looking bartender was polishing a row of wineglasses. “What's a Death Star Special?” I asked, noting the chalkboard behind him.
“Raspberry daiquiri,” he told me.
Pamela Roderick walked in a few minutes later. She was dressed in knee-length green satin and carried a jeweled handbag. She looked overdressed for this place, so I guessed we'd be eating elsewhere. Reggie was still talking, waving his hands and occasionally pounding on the podium or whatever it was, so I stood up and introduced myself as Samuel Roscoe, a cable television producer.
“I saw your appearance on the Jack Ratt Show tonight,” I said. “It was very impressive."
“Thank you. That was taped two days ago.” The trace of a smile played on her lips. “Reggie is camera shy, so I have to front for us. Besides, he always seems to be tied up with that organization."
“The CIAAP, you mean?"
“Are you a member?"
“Well no,” I said, “but I may be joining. I'd certainly like to hear more about it. The fact is I'm quite interested in your book."
She was young and smart and beautiful. We sipped at raspberry daiquiris on two barstools and talked about the Voynich manuscript and the Albingensians and flying saucers. I told her I was developing a cable program that involved interviews with some of the descendants of the returned humans.
Reggie finally wrapped things up with the true believers and we adjourned to a French bistro a block and a half away.
* * * *
Gourmet en Bas was tucked away in a basement with small ceiling-high windows that would give you views of pedestrians’ shoes at lunchtime. The cellar atmosphere was accented with working steam pipes hanging from the ceiling that clanged and hissed at random intervals. The small, square tables all had white tablecloths and dripless candles in empty half-bottles that had once held first-growth Bordeaux.
“So, Mr. Roscoe,” Marsh said off-handedly, without looking up as he perused the menu, “what have you for us?"
I had been working on my story. “I met a man on a recent trip to France,” I said. “He professes himself to be the descendant of ancestors who were returned to Earth in 1530 or thereabouts. He claims the Voynich document was composed by them and a dozen or so others around that time, but was stolen."
Reggie looked up from the menu and arched his eyebrows, making a washboard of his brow. “Indeed?"
“By Edward Kelley, the English mountebank magician, who then sold it to Emperor Rudolph II."
Pamela chimed
in. “We offered that scenario as one possible route for the provenance of the document. And Reggie has also met—"
“This man you spoke to,” Marsh said. “Are you certain he is not a publicity seeker who is trying to capitalize on the popular success of our book?"
A waiter appeared at this point with a towel tucked into his belt and with a pad and pencil poised. Reggie ordered an expensive wine and several appetizers. When we had all ordered and the waiter had left I said: “This man I met claimed that he had never heard of The Voynich Verdict when I mentioned it."
“One never knows about these things,” Reggie countered, “however, if you'll provide the contact information, I'll check his story out."
I didn't know where I was going with this, so I just started talking. “Actually, I was hoping to use the videotaped interview as part of a television special for one of the cable channels. He's promised me several other contacts of ‘repatriated’ Cathari that I'm hoping to use as well. I'd like you both to be interviewed also as part of the program."
This seemed to go over like a lead balloon with Marsh, although I could tell that Pamela was enthused about it.
“We will have to see the footage you plan to use,” Reggie said.
“Well, things are currently at a very preliminary stage,” I told him. “I'll keep in touch by e-mail."
Little more was said about the matter during the meal. Pamela and I engaged in small talk while Reggie brooded. I caught him studying me pensively several times.
I picked up the tab with a credit card. Poppa Roderick would be footing the bill.
Reggie had a car in a nearby garage and offered to drop us both off. Pamela got out at a fashionable apartment complex and I replaced her in the front seat. I told him I was staying at the Plaza, but he seemed to be heading cross-town. When we stopped at a traffic light I said, “Are you taking Madison?” I thought he was reaching behind him for something in the backseat, and then there was a sharp pain in my arm. In seconds the streetlights started to get blurry. “Hey!” I said, as the car's acceleration knocked me back in the seat. The dash-panel's lights swam like green snakes, then dimmed.
“Goodnight, Mr. Roscoe,” I heard him say, and then everything went black.
* * * *
This part is very fuzzy. I remember a brightly lit shabby office. I was stretched out on a leather sofa. Marsh was there—I'm sure of that—and at least two other men, both swarthy—one tall and bald, one fat and white-haired. They were going through my wallet. Then one of them said, “Let's find out what he knows.” I started to get up when a hand caught my shoulder and there was another sharp pain—this time in my neck. I tried to focus my eyes but the darkness started closing in. I desperately looked around, fighting the drug, trying to focus on something: a word, part of a word, on a dropped manila folder on the floor. Somebody rolled me back onto the sofa. And then the blackness closed in again.
* * * *
I woke up freezing in an alley. My ears were ringing, my head was pounding, and somebody was poking my side. It was a uniformed patrolman and his nightstick was doing a job on my ribcage. I reeked of whiskey. My clothes had been soaked with it, and there was a broken bottle at my outstretched feet. The sky between opposing fire escapes was showing the first signs of morning light.
“I'm givin’ you one minute to get up and get moving, or I'm callin’ for a patrol car."
I struggled to my feet. They'd put back my wallet and left the cards and money. I walked shakily away with a wave at the patrolman who was watching me, patting his nightstick in his palm. I made it to a corner where I could hail a cab.
I was back uptown by 8 a.m. and I ignored the stares in the lobby of the Plaza. In my room I showered and shaved, then collapsed on the bed for a couple of hours until the maid's tapping at the door got my attention. I yelled to her to come back in a half hour and then dug out some clean clothes, trying to piece things together as I dressed. Who were those guys? I tried to picture their faces, but all I got were blurry images.
I stopped and tried to take stock. This all had to make some kind of sense. I ran down the list of possibilities. One: CIAAP fringers with some kind of loony agenda. Two: government agents of some kind working on some sort of hush-hush project that I had just stumbled into. Three: three was crazy, but what if there really was something to this flying saucer/returned humans business? I didn't see any LGM, but were Marsh's buddies just back from the stars? Whoever they were, they were playing hardball and wanted me scared off and out of their hair. The message, apparently, was next time no more mister nice guy.
I studied myself in the oval mirror. I was a little wilted, like the flowers, but decided I'd pass. What I needed was a cup of coffee—maybe three or four cups of very black coffee. I was just about to leave the room when I remembered something—the manila folder. It was a word. I tried to picture it. Four capital letters: S-T-E-G. An abbreviation? An acronym? Somebody's initials? A nickname? I grabbed a notepad from the writing desk and headed for the elevator.
The brisk morning air helped to clear some of the mental cobwebs; the French Roast at a small coffee shop helped more. I sat at the counter soaking up the caffeine and the fresh brewed aroma with the four letters on the notepad in front of me. I tapped at them with a pencil. Stegosaurus? I drew a little sketch of the dinosaur with the twin-row of plates down its back. I needed a dictionary.
I finished a third cup, took another bite out of a half-eaten donut, and headed for the New York Public Library branch at 53rd and Fifth. In the Reference Section, I bypassed the Oxford's twenty volumes and decided on a large Webster's on a stand. I found “stegosaurus” and its related terms: “stegosauria,” “stegosaurian,” “Stegosauridae,” “stegosauroid"—that wasn't helping. Then there was “stegomyia” (the yellow fever mosquito), “stegocarpi” (a type of moss), “stegnosis” (constipation), “Steganopodes” (the pelicans), “steganography” (secret writing). That stopped me cold. From the Greek word “steganos": “covered, secret."
I found a bit more in a small encyclopedia:
* * * *
STEGANOGRAPHY
Unlike cryptography (see), where the existence of a message is known but unreadable to all but confederates, in steganography only the confederate knows of the existence of the message, which is hidden within a plain sight document. Not to be confused with stenography (see).
* * * *
I checked my watch. Pamela's book signing at Barnes & Noble was scheduled for 1 p.m. If I remembered correctly it was on Fifth Avenue about five blocks south. I could get there in ten minutes at a fast walk. It was time to level with her. Her boyfriend was into something that smelled ugly and she was playing a dangerous game. It was time to spit or swallow.
* * * *
The bookstore was packed with wall-to-wall people. I fought my way past the checkout line at the door and wove through a sea of lunch-hour browsers to the back of the store where Pamela was set up behind a large table stacked with copies of The Voynich Verdict. I got in line behind an elderly lady in a faux fur coat who smelled of some old fashioned floral perfume. As I inched forward I noted with relief that Marsh was nowhere around. When the faux fur lady got her book and left, Pamela automatically reached for another volume without looking up. “How would you like it signed?” she said, turning over the flyleaf.
“Live long and prosper,” I said.
She looked up, startled, and smiled. “Mr. Roscoe!"
“Pamela, I need to talk to you. Can you get away for a few minutes?"
“Well, I...” She looked around at the line behind me.
I lowered my voice. “This is extremely important. My name isn't Roscoe, it's Sanko. I'm a private investigator hired by your father."
She had a little sign that she turned over, “Back in 10 Minutes,” then she stood up and led me to a flight of stairs and an empty second-floor office.
I told her everything, including the late night party that her fiancée had arranged for me.
She wa
s leaning against a steel desk, taking it all in, calmly. She was a cool customer, I decided, or else in deeper than I wanted to believe. When I finished, she sighed. “I guess then I'd better let you in on what's going on.” She bit her lip. “It bugs me, though, that daddy hired a P.I."
“He's worried,” I said. “Fathers worry."
“Yeah, I guess this all looks like I've got three wheels in the sand and the accelerator floored."
“So what's the real story?"
She brushed back an auburn curl. “It started right after the publication of my first book. I was proud of that. The critics said it was a legitimate piece of sociological extrapolation. Well, the chancellor at Yale got wind of it and scheduled me to deliver a noontime faculty seminar. There was a Dr. Dietrich from the rare book library who came up to me after the presentation. He said he had an acquaintance he wanted me to meet."
“Reggie."
“Yes. You may not believe this, but Reggie can be very gallant.” She frowned. “Don't smile, Mr. Sanko. At any rate, Dietrich brought Reggie around to the Chemistry Department and introduced us. He was very charming. We started dating. He gushed over my first book. After a couple of weeks he started talking about the Voynich. Up to that point I was only vaguely aware that it was something mysterious and that we had the original in the Beinecke. Reggie showed me the high-resolution file of images—all 234 pages—that Dietrich had put up on the library's website. Then he showed me an English translation of a treatise that highlighted similarities between some of the Voynich drawings and the secret symbolism of the Albingensians. The author also claimed that the Voynich text was an encrypted form of Flemish. A week later Reggie introduced me to a man with a strange accent, named Jacques de Comines, who claimed to be a descendant of the rescued Cathari. He said the Voynich manuscript had been written by his ancestors upon their return to Earth in the sixteenth century. He said the manuscript's loss, probably by theft, contributed to the fading of the secretly held Albingensian beliefs. As the returned Cathari merged into European society, all that remained was a secret family legend that some ancestors had once lived on another world."
Analog SFF, April 2008 Page 4
