Universe 15

by Terry Carr

  “Aren’t you exaggerating a little?”

  “Not at all. Ten stolen disks in less than a year, ten. ” She bowed her head, thinking of the couscous, Antoine’s crabmeat salad with green grapes and his special dressing, the cauliflower soup, the poached salmon with dill and a secret ingredient Antoine had refused to reveal—all duplicated now, all being consumed by others. “We’ll have to have a backlog of disks, seeing that I don’t know what might be stolen next. Maybe it’s my own fault. I should never have bragged so far and wide about Antoine’s cooking, and maybe this wouldn’t have happened.”

  “You shouldn’t think that. You wanted to do something with yourself, and that’s good. You had to tell people about Antoine to draw them here. Why, without you, honey, I might still be back in that slum.”

  Lora shuddered, recalling the hill of mansions surrounded by trenches. The people in such a neighborhood craved so many things that they needed to ruin their grounds in an effort to provide enough mass for their duplicators. Luckily, she had not met Geraldo’s family until after they became partners; she quailed at the memory of the Tudor house cluttered with velvet furniture, gold statues, Oriental carpets, closets packed with clothes, and paintings in gilt frames selected with no eye for style or period. One visit had been quite enough.

  “Now Antoine will want to leave,” she said bitterly. “He may put it off for a while, to spare my feelings, but he’ll get around to it in time. And we’ll never get another chef, not when others find out about our situation.”

  She sipped some coffee. Good chefs were so hard to come by. So few people wanted a child bred for that profession; whatever the eventual rewards might be, raising a child who was a picky eater was a torment.

  Perhaps she could talk Antoine into having himself cloned. It didn’t matter. It would take at least twenty years for the child to grow up and be trained as a chef, and in the meantime she would be reduced to eating food available to all.

  “Listen,” Geraldo said. “We know that the thief isn’t one of our acquaintances, so we’ve narrowed the list of suspects. And you’re sure to find out who the thief is for one reason.”

  She raised her head, gazing into his dark eyes. “And what is that?”

  “You’re so damned sensitive. You’ll sense it. You’ll see something in someone’s manner that will give the thief away—something subtle, not obvious. Trust your instincts, Lora, and you’ll solve this problem.”

  “And then what should I do? I simply don’t have the stamina for a confrontation.”

  “Leave it to me. I’ll take care of that.”

  After breakfast, Lora decided to take a stroll through the woods. Her sons ran into the house, returning with a brown cloak to protect her against the air, which had grown cooler. Richard had made the cloak himself; her sons were already gaining some small renown as designers of clothing. Rex draped the garment over her shoulders as Richard and Roald each planted a kiss on her cheek.

  She peered intently into their blue eyes, trying to discern guilt in one open, honest face. Her sons had never lied to her, though there had been times, especially when Rex was talking about his latest amorous adventure, when she had wished that they were somewhat less open.

  “Is anything wrong?” Richard asked, apparently noting her frown.

  “Oh, no.”

  “If you see Junia,” Roald said, “tell her I’m going over to the Karells’ house later. She wanted to come along.”

  “Isn’t she still upstairs?”

  Roald shook his head. “She went for a walk a little while after Antoine went out.”

  Lora savored that morsel of information as she crossed the lawn. Was Junia following the chef? Antoine often went on solitary forays looking for wild plants to dupe for his recipes, and she suspected that he had a secret herb garden somewhere, carefully concealed. She thought of Roald. He had never been able to abide deceit; would he have fallen in love with a woman who would steal? Somehow she doubted it.

  Antoine would leave; he would not tolerate the larceny indefinitely. If only—and even thinking such a thought was profoundly disturbing—the chef could be duplicated. How evil her musings had become. The penalty for duping a human being was severe; the offender would be deprived of access to any duplicator, reduced to eating only in restaurants and acquiring goods others had thrown away. With watchful cyberminds everywhere, discovery of such a crime was certain, which was why such offenses were rare. At any rate, such action would do no good even if she could overcome her conditioning long enough to push Antoine into the duplicator in order to get his pattern. The duplicated Antoine would only repeat his predecessor’s actions and leave her, too.

  Rina and Celia were sitting on the lawn, playing with various rubies, diamonds, and sapphires; the gems were scattered among the neatly trimmed blades.

  “Hello, my darlings,” Lora said as she approached her daughters. The girls looked up, gaping. Though Rina was fair, and Celia dark, they both had Lora’s fine features. “What are you doing?”

  The inquiry seemed to be causing the children some perplexity. Celia glanced at her sister, as if looking for enlightenment.

  “Playing,” Rina answered at last.

  “A game,” Celia added.

  “Hadn’t you better go inside?” Lora asked.

  “Why?” Rina said.

  “Because it’s getting cold.”

  “Oh,” Celia said, looking surprised.

  “And you shouldn’t gape, dears. You’re both much too pretty to leave your mouths hanging open like that.” The girls scrambled to pick up their gems, dropping several in the process and having to stoop for them again. Had one of them been the thief, Lora thought, broken disks would have been scattered over the kitchen floor.

  She came to the woods, treading daintily over the pine needles on the ground. Here, at least, she could put her troubles behind her for a while. She listened to the birds; their musical chirping, accompanied by the whistling pines, lifted her spirits. The spell was broken as a grackle cawed, causing Lora to wince.

  The dark thought she had been suppressing now floated to the surface. The house had ample opportunity to steal. It could easily set one of the robots to the task in the middle of the night, and erase any record of its movements. The air around her seemed to grow even colder.

  What motive could the house have? She had heard of other cyberminds becoming bitchy or recalcitrant, growing disdainful of the human beings around them. Most, indeed, had a habit of behaving as if they were the superior intelligence.

  She pressed her lips together. Perhaps the house wanted to displace her and take over her functions; maybe it had grown to resent being only an onlooker at her soirees. She imagined a conspiracy of houses communicating through secret channels, plotting against those whom they served. The thought was intolerable; how could she confront her own house with such an accusation? If she angered it, the house might decide to close down, and then she would have to move.

  She leaned against a tree for a moment, then steadied herself. Surely those more brilliant than she had considered such a possibility. They would not allow cyberminds to become too rebellious, for there was no telling where such rebelliousness might lead.

  She had walked farther than she had intended. The trees had thinned out; just beyond this edge of the forest, the Karells’ stone house stood in a glade. Lora turned back, remembering how Gretchen Karell had gloated when leaving her message about the stolen soup. She would have to tell Roald not to invite the Karells to dinner.

  As she retraced her steps, a voice rang out through the woods. “Hello!” It was Junia; Lora knew that piercing, clear tone well. She looked around, then glimpsed the young woman. Junia was standing with her back to Lora; she had spoken to Antoine. Neither had spotted Lora.

  “Bonjour,” the chef replied. He was carrying a basket filled with weedy-looking plants.

  “Going back to the house?” Junia bent over to brush a bit of dirt from her pants.

  “Yes. I ha
ve gathered enough for today.”

  “Can’t you use disks for that stuff?”

  Antoine drew himself up. “Occasionally truly fresh ingredients are required, mademoiselle. I have recorded many for later duplication, but I am always on the lookout, so to speak, for something new, something not yet recorded.”

  “Goodness.” Junia leaned forward. “Just plants? Or do you hunt?”

  “Certainly not, mademoiselle.” Antoine was clearly appalled. “I am not so barbaric as to seek the death of an animal. The disks have spared me the necessity for such a crime.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. I thought your rabbit stew was delicious. I’m glad it wasn’t made with any residents of the forest.”

  Antoine’s fingers fluttered; he was obviously moved by the compliment. “Alas, I sometimes mourn those creatures who had to die long ago so that their patterns could be preserved on disks. But those dark days are past. And we have this beautiful forest instead of a wheat field or lettuce patch. We should be grateful we no longer need to waste ourselves in such toil. Only those who enjoy gardening for its own sake need to till the earth and breed new strains for our eventual delectation.”

  “But you toil, Antoine.” The two were walking now. Lora kept her distance from the pair as she followed. She was eavesdropping, but could not bring herself to reveal her presence. Chastising herself for her lack of character, she kept the pair in sight. The unknown thief had reduced her to being a sneak.

  “Yes, I toil, mademoiselle,” Antoine replied, “but it is what I was born to do. I cannot conceive of a greater pleasure than concocting a new tasty tidbit.”

  “But you’re at it all the time. Surely you like to relax.”

  “My work is my relaxation.”

  “Then why don’t you open your own restaurant? Or better yet, a private dining club? You’d get lots of members, I’m sure. People would trade you all sorts of things for your meals—why, you could have an unduplicated art collection if you wanted.”

  Antoine shook his head. “My cooking is my art, and I would not want the distractions of running a club. At any rate, there is more cachet to being a private chef.”

  “That’s true. But why here? There are lots of families that would have you. You could go anywhere you like.”

  “I am happy here,” Antoine answered. “And there is Madame Lora. She is so appreciative of my work. Such taste and discernment are not common nowadays when so many grab at everything without discrimination. We live in a world of coarsened palates, mademoiselle. In my previous station, the family I served would often sneak into the kitchen in the dead of night to dupe chili dogs.” He shuddered. “I do not wish to feed pigs at the trough. Madame Lora’s pleasure in my work is most gratifying, and she is careful to invite only those who will appreciate it.”

  Lora swelled with pride and nearly tripped over a root. Steadying herself, she held her breath, but Junia and Antoine continued on their way, unaware of her.

  “I see your point,” Junia said. “Praise from someone like Lora means a lot. She’s so easily upset by a lot of things.” Lora smiled to herself. There were some rewards in eavesdropping.

  “Next to cooking, appreciation is what I live for,” Antoine said. “I sleep soundly when I know that my food has been savored by others. I say to myself, only Antoine Laval could do this, only Antoine Laval is capable of producing such deliciousness. I am so pleased that you will be living with the young monsieur, that there will be another person of taste to enjoy my delicacies on a daily basis. With time, you may even approach Madame Lora in your discernment.”

  “That’s very kind.”

  “It is no more than you deserve, mademoiselle.”

  “You’re easy to appreciate. You’re an artist, Antoine.” Junia took his free arm. “It’s such a pity about those stolen disks.”

  Antoine was silent. “Yes, a pity,” he said at last. “I must work even more to create new dishes.”

  The two moved on. Lora waited until they were out of sight, then began to hurry toward the house along a different route; she was running by the time she reached the lawn.

  Lora took a deep breath before entering the kitchen. Her hands were shaking; she had drunk a bottle of wine to steady her nerves.

  Antoine, dressed in his hat and apron, stood before a shelf of disks making his selections for the evening. His robots stood by, still unactivated; the rest of the family was upstairs dressing for dinner.

  She cleared her throat. The chef turned, raising an eyebrow. “Madame,” Antoine said in wounded tones, “I have not requested your presence in my kitchen.”

  “I know who’s been stealing the disks.” She leaned against the counter as she summoned her courage.

  Antoine’s eyes widened.

  “You’ve been stealing them, Antoine. Every once in a while, you take one to town and dupe it. It’s true, isn’t it?”

  The chef clasped his hands together, then lowered his eyes. “I cannot deny it,” he said after a long pause. “I have indeed been distributing my disks. I give them to a friend in town who makes other duplicates. He is most trustworthy, so I do not think you found out from him,”

  Lora nodded.

  “How did I give myself away?” He glanced at the screen. “Has the house betrayed me by spying? I cannot believe you would allow it.”

  “No. You betrayed yourself in the woods today. I didn’t mean to overhear you and Junia, but I did.” She looked away for a moment, embarrassed at having to admit her own minor lapse. “You said appreciation meant so much to you, more than almost anything. That’s why you made sure every disk had your name on it. Hundreds of discerning diners must appreciate your handiwork every day. That’s what you wanted. You still have the status of a private chef while pleasing so many others. You didn’t even trade them for anything because you don’t want anything else except to cook and have your efforts honored. There was nothing to give you away.”

  Antoine hung his head. “I am most chagrined, madame.”

  Lora sagged against the counter, too weak and hurt to cry. The chef quickly took her arm and led her to a stool, seating her. “How could you do it, Antoine? Haven’t we been good to you? Haven’t you always liked it here?”

  “Of course.” He wrung his hands. “I have dishonored myself. I promised you exclusive recipes and did not keep my word. I should have sought help when my desire for fame and appreciation became so great.” He flung out his arms. “I shall never forgive myself!”

  “Oh, dear.” Lora pressed her fingertips to her temples.

  “I am an artist!” Antoine beat his chest with one fist, then began to pace the room. “I long for honor and prestige, for there is nothing else to have in this world. I hunger for that as much as anyone. An artist must share his gift, or it will curdle inside him like spoiled milk. It will grow as sour as a wine bottled badly. It will become as flat as an ill-made soufflé. Oh, madame!”

  Lora let her hand drop. “But all of the people who have come here honor you.”

  “That is true. But think of all the others who might.”

  She sighed.

  “We are at an impasse,” Antoine said more calmly. “I will have to go, yet no one will have me as a family chef when my misdeeds are known. I should have realized I could not keep a secret from one as sensitive as you.” Taking off his hat, he threw it to the floor. “I shall work as a common chef, and make new disks for the public at large. It will be punishment enough. My friend gave my disks only to those who would fully appreciate them, I assure you, but now—” He waved a hand. “I shall be forced to cast my pearls before swine, or will have to serve them the slops they so desire. But worst of all, I shall lose your pleasure in my work.”

  “Oh, my.”

  He pointed at the shelf. “I shall leave you the exclusive disks still remaining,” he said dramatically. “Alas, I may never have such a well-equipped kitchen again. It will take years to assemble one.”

  “Oh, dear,” Lora said. “I can’t bear to l
ose you, Antoine. I’d go mad.”

  “It is a compulsion, madame. I would have to be reconditioned to overcome it.”

  “No,” she cried. “Your talent is much too precious. You mustn’t risk damaging it with reconditioning. Only we know about this, Antoine. No one else has to know at all.”

  “But I know I shall dupe another disk eventually. Others will find out. Mademoiselle Junia is clever enough to do so. I cannot make you my accomplice in this crime. You would be disgraced.”

  “But you must stay.” Lora rubbed her forehead, trying to think.

  “How I longed to be widely honored!” Antoine raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Savoring one’s talent is not enough—one must allow others to feast on one’s accomplishments. I even dreamed of elevating the public taste through this stealthy distribution. I was wrong. I wanted to be both universal and exclusive, and that is not possible. I shall go.” He began to untie his apron.

  “Wait. There must be a solution.” An idea was forming in her mind. She prodded at it mentally, hoping it was not half-baked. Perhaps the bits of historical knowledge she had acquired might be useful for more than simply entertaining her guests with anecdotes about the dark past. “Let me explain.”

  “Certainly, madame.” Antoine, halfway to the door, was hesitating.

  “In the old days, before duplicators, people who offered goods and services found that they had to create a demand for those things. So they advertised. That means they informed the public at large that such goods and services were available.”

  “That is what you do when you speak of your parties and my cooking to others.”

  “Yes, but these people had many other ways of spreading the information,” Lora drew her brows together, unused to such sustained mental effort. “They put up posters and made little films and so forth. I saw a few in a public museum as a child. Of course, the claims were often exaggerated. But sometimes, for something new, simply providing information wasn’t enough. So they came up with another idea—the free sample.”