Analog SFF, November 2005

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Alexander took a deep breath and seemed to visibly swell behind the huge desk. “A extensive series of theoretical papers, authored by myself, and concerning unclassified and declassified aspects of the work have, in fact, created quite a stir,” he said.

  Feeling a bit irrelevant, I felt compelled to say something. “When Hypatia Theonsky left, did she leave a forwarding address?"

  Alexander confirmed my irrelevancy with an annoyed furrowing of those dark bushy brows. “No. Her employer was the University; her permanent supervisor was the chairman of the Molecular Biology department. It would really be too much of a chore for this department to maintain detailed personnel files on all our hired help. I suggest that you gentlemen speak with Dr. Synesius of Molecular Biology."

  Baker now leaned forward, fingers still bridged. “How long was Ms. Theonsky employed here as ‘hired help?'” he asked.

  “Two years, I believe it was."

  “Two years in a department where classified work was proceeding and you kept no personnel files?"

  Alexander's expression changed dramatically, and it was not pretty. “Employee screening and security are handled by an on-site government agent. Any questions you have in that regard should be directed to him. Now really, gentlemen—” and he stood up and glared at me, “—I have no more time for this."

  Feeling like an offending piece of lint on a new suit, I stood up to leave, but Baker sank back into a languid pose in the chair.

  “Where would we find these two individuals you mentioned?” Baker inquired, calmly.

  “Dr. Synesius is on the third floor, South Wing, the government agent is a Mr. Miles Orestian. He has an office on the first floor of this building. My secretary will provide you with room numbers.” Alexander emerged from behind his desk and loomed above Baker's chair like a bird of prey. “Now I must ask you to leave. I'm expecting an overseas call of the utmost importance."

  Baker looked up at him, almost disinterested. “The Nobel Committee generally calls in the early morning hours. I suggest you set an early alarm.” Then he got up and we walked out.

  The University had provided a small office for Miles Orestian. It was adjacent to a Campus Police complex of rooms, where a noisy card game seemed to be in progress.

  Miles was short with very black curly hair and deep-set eyes. He seemed to be one of those people who never looked at you when he spoke. And right now he was concentrating on a liverwurst sandwich. “Sure,” he was saying, “I remember Hypatia. Old, but—nice, you know? Nice rack on her. I liked her. Sorry to see her go. We were working on a Q for her, but it never got through."

  Baker handed Miles a napkin as the rye bread began to shed raw onion rings. “That would be a Q clearance?"

  “Thanks. Oh, yeah. That's the way it goes most of the time—somebody's been around—different jobs, different cities—a Q might take five years.” He wiped yellow mustard from his mouth. “Alexander wanted all his programmers cleared. They can't do much—can't work on the classified stuff until the Q clears."

  “Did Dr. Alexander see any urgency about the matter?"

  “I can tell you this—Hypatia was golden when he first brought her up. He was after me to move up the priority on her clearance, but, like I told him, that might mean four years instead of five. I figured he was getting some of that, but I never let on. That was back a couple of years. Then things must have gone sour—for her to leave in a big huff, I mean."

  “So it was only recently that Ms. Theonsky and Dr. Alexander had a falling out?"

  Miles Orestian gestured with a wave of his sandwich. “You'd have to know her ways, but it was almost predictable. Hypatia is kind of a free spirit—an aging flower child. She still talks about Woodstock sometimes. Alexander is..."

  “A little scary,” I volunteered.

  “You met him. Yeah, he's a real sweetheart.” Miles shrugged. “In this line I've got to work with all kinds."

  “Did you speak with Hypatia when she resigned from the University?” Baker asked.

  Miles worked at a sandwich remnant stuck in a tooth. “Yeah, that's part of my job. The departure interview is sort of a formality for the un-cleared personnel, but, yeah, I talked with her. She was pretty upset, but didn't really get into any details with me. She said she was leaving for personal reasons. I suggested she go back to her old job under Synesius. They always got along. But she said something about that being a little too close to Alexander. She didn't want to be in the same building with the guy.” Miles sucked a tooth. “Go figure women,” he said.

  “She left a forwarding address with you, then?” Baker inquired.

  “Yeah, just a minute.” And Miles proceeded to rummage through a filing drawer. “If she'd gotten her clearance, I couldn't give you guys anything on her, but as it is...” He pulled out a manila folder. “Here you go: ‘Number 1 Penny Lane, Erewhon, New York',” he read.

  We got to see Dr. Synesius without the slightest difficulty. He was feeding a collection of tropical fish in a large aquarium in the outer office of the Molecular Biology department. He was a short man who greeted us with a broad red-faced grin, brushing back a mop of white hair. “Hypatia? Oh my, yes—a wonderful woman—a brilliant, absolutely brilliant researcher. She was an instructor for our General Genetics undergraduate course before transferring to Physics. We tried to get her back when that finally fell through, but she said she had other plans."

  Baker looked pensive. “How long did Ms. Theonsky work here before transferring to Information Science?"

  “Let me see—at least ten years, perhaps a bit more. I had hopes of getting her into a tenure track at one point."

  “Was there some special area of research?"

  “Hypatia did some fine work in genome typing. She was particularly good with the equipment—the sequencers and synthesizers. She managed to keep the equipment running when many of us would have phoned for the repairman. But, then her real interest seemed to be with the software.” Synesius sat on the edge of a desk and patted the top of a monitor screen. “She modified a number of our number crunchers to great advantage. I suspect that was how we lost her to Dr. Alexander's project."

  “Publications?” Baker asked.

  “Several co-authorships on bits and pieces of the Human Genome Project. We were a small satellite group here. I could find reprints for you."

  Baker nodded. “That would be most useful. Did she maintain contact while she worked in the other department?"

  “She would drop by on occasion. Last summer she brought a young nephew along. I believe they did some lab work for a high school project. We were always glad to see Hypatia."

  “Did you speak to her before she left the University?"

  “Very briefly,” Synesius said, frowning. “She was upset, I could tell, but put up a cheerful front. I could only offer her a return to her old instructorship. But she said that she wasn't interested. She seemed set upon leaving the University."

  “Did she discuss any plans?"

  “Not really. Only that she needed some time to sort things out. I gave her my home phone number and told her that I would be glad to serve as a reference for her.” Synesius stood up with a look of concern. “Is she in some sort of trouble?"

  “Right now,” Baker said, “all we know is that she is missing."

  Throughout most of the preceding interviews, I had maintained the part of the mute observer, in part because I had little or nothing to contribute, but mostly because I had clung to the conviction that I would soon take my leave of Baker and the Hypatia affair and return to my motel room. It was now well past 4:30 and the campus was settling into a more sedate mode of scattered night classes and dorm life.

  We were walking along one of the tree-lined paths, the early November sun just beginning to set. Squirrels were scampering among the fallen leaves and a scattering of individual students and couples were strolling between the buildings. Baker had been silently thoughtful and I was content to abstain from comment, with the hope and intention
of extricating myself smoothly.

  Then there was a low buzz and in the next moment Baker had a cell phone at his ear. “Indeed? Yes, of course. We'll be right over."

  I distinctly didn't like the sound of this.

  “That was Randal,” Baker said, stuffing the phone into one of the inner pockets of his coat. “He just received an urgent note from his aunt."

  At first I couldn't believe that Baker's 1960-vintage Volkswagen Beetle was still roadworthy. And, indeed, it moaned and groaned when he turned the ignition, but soon we were cruising along through the Newark suburbs, though I kept a firm hand on the overhead handgrip and another firmly planted on the dash.

  “I believe it's here,” Baker said, and we screeched to a stop in the driveway of a modest home with a porch and a swing.

  Baker was out of the car in a moment and ringing the front doorbell while I sat waiting. He returned in a few minutes with a small envelope with no return address. He passed it to me as he restarted the reluctant engine. “Look at that, Woodside,” he said as we pulled out into the street with a screech of tires.

  It was a hastily scribble note:

  “Dear Randy,

  “If anything happens to me, I want you to know that your Aunt Hypatia loves you. You have the curiosity and free-thinking that it takes to be really good in science. Don't lose that! Don't be a drone! And think for yourself, always, even when everyone else, even your teachers, are marching in step. Remember me.

  —Auntie

  P.S. Don't show this note to your mom."

  I was staring at the paper as Baker glanced over at me. “Well, Woodside, what do you make of that?"

  I was transfixed by the dark red irregular spot in the upper right hand corner of the paper. “It looks like blood,” I said.

  It was a half-hour later and we had arrived in mid-town Manhattan at Baker's brownstone office/residence/laboratory. I was helping myself to a glass of sherry while Baker was examining the notepaper with a binocular microscope.

  I had just taken a first sip of the Tio Pepe fino that Baker favored when I heard, “Woodside, be a good fellow and pop into the kitchen for a box of bicarbonate of soda."

  “Where?” I called.

  “Try the back of the refrigerator. Make up a dilute water solution for me, would you, old chap?"

  In a few moments I produced the desired solution in a small juice-glass. I presented it to Baker, who retrieved some with a small medicine dropper. “A bit too red for dried blood,” he said, applying several drops to the notepaper stain. To my instant amazement it turned blue. “Look at this, Woodside."

  “What is it then?” I said.

  Baker held up the bright blue stain to the overhead light. “Undoubtedly, an anthocyanin. And fairly concentrated."

  That sounded familiar but the details escaped me. “A natural product compound?” I offered.

  “Precisely, Woodside. Anthocyanins are water-soluble non-nutritive plant pigments. Like chlorophyll and the carotenoids, they provide color to plant life. However, they undergo a pH color change—they are red in acidic conditions and blue in an alkaline medium. Red cabbage, berries, grapes, the skin of apples, eggplants, and radishes all contain anthocyanins—even tree leaves, though there it is usually obscured by the green of chlorophyll until the fall.” Baker studied the spot under a small bench lamp, using a large hand lens. “This is a particularly bright spot—I would surmise..."

  I waited expectantly. “Yes, Baker?"

  “...pomegranate juice."

  “Where on Earth would that come from?” I asked.

  But Baker was already sorting though a file drawer. “Ms. Theonsky's note to her nephew was postmarked from here in New York City. I have a file that I compiled several years ago that may still be relevant. Ah, yes, here: ‘Juice Bars in Manhattan.’”

  “Really, Baker, is this disguise necessary?” I was looking at myself in a full-length mirror. I had been appointed in a black knit pullover sweater with a full black beard, sunglasses, and sandals. Baker appeared behind me in the reflected image. He had donned a mustache-less goatee, a horizontally striped pullover shirt, and black neck scarf. This was topped by a black beret.

  “Just the thing, Woodside,” he said. “We want to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Haven't you heard of the new ‘60s retro among the college crowd?"

  Frankly, I hadn't, though I was not about to admit it to someone who normally walked around in a deerstalker cap. “Of course,” I said, “but where are we going?” I patted the top of my thinning pate. “And don't I need a hat of some sort?"

  He handed his beret to me. “There you are. Now, Woodside, let us proceed at once to Greenwich Village, where the largest number of juice bars have been established near the grounds of New York University."

  As we descended the stairs, I yielded to a thought that had been tugging at the edge of my consciousness. We were outfitted for a ‘50s Beatnik Era coffeehouse, while a juice bar struck me as more of a hippie/Age of Aquarius milieu. Baker had missed the retro fit by a decade. I raised the point at the landing, and Baker stopped short, becoming pensive for just a moment. “Indeed,” he said, “very insightful, Woodside. Quick, then, let us re-group.” And with that he dashed back up the stairs.

  “Well, Woodside, what do you think?” We were back before the same full-length mirror. I was in a tie-dyed T-shirt with an afro wig, while Baker had donned a Nehru jacket with a peace symbol amulet draped by a cord around his neck. I held up two fingers weakly. “You have quite a wardrobe collection,” I said.

  “Here's your coat, Woodside. Let's be off. We'll take the Tube."

  The subway ride was amazing for its lack of event. None of the bored passengers gave us a second glance. I was just trying to decipher some faint hieroglyphics on the graffiti-resistant inside walls of the car when Baker nudged me. “Houston Street, our stop.” We dashed out just before the train doors slid shut and soon found ourselves in a strange setting of darkening streets. “We are within a short walk of New York University,” Baker said. “There are undoubtedly some juice bars along this route."

  I thought dimly of how this approach seemed to be a hopeless task. We were indeed looking for a very small needle in a gargantuan haystack. But I also remembered that Baker, for all his eccentricities, had bloodhound instincts that had served him very well over the years. And so the possibility of our finding Hypatia Theonsky did not quite diminish to zero, although the curve seemed to be asymptotically approaching that point.

  Several places we passed were rock music bars, jammed to near fire law limits with people, and with accompanying sound levels loud enough to be a tangible presence on the sidewalk outside. There were bistro-style restaurants with steamy exhalations of smoke and garlic. And there was the occasional jazz bar with its older crowd—dinosaur establishments from, perhaps in some ways, a more innocent era.

  Baker's purposeful stride suggested that he had a destination in mind. But, struggling to keep pace, I nearly ran into him as he stopped abruptly to peer at the street signs.

  “Are we lost?” I suggested.

  “Not at all,” Baker sniffed, “I was merely wondering if it would be more useful to follow Thompson or Sullivan to Bleecker. Our first stop is along Bleecker."

  “What exactly is our first stop?” I asked.

  “Nikki's Nectars."

  “Oh."

  “It's not far, Woodside. Let us proceed."

  Nikki was a dark-haired, dark-complexioned young woman with a scarab tattoo just above a plunging neckline. She spoke with an accent that I didn't immediately recognize. The place was dark, except for an annoying strobe light and rotating disco ball.

  “Portuguese,” Baker told me when we emerged back out onto the street. “She was most helpful. Pomegranate juice is sold in bottled form everywhere except at Gina's Juice Joint, where it is squeezed from the juice-encapsulated seeds of the fresh fruit. It is the perfect place to spatter a hastily written letter. This is spectacular news, Woodside!"


  “I thought Nikki herself was pretty spectacular,” I observed.

  Baker knitted his brows. “A man in your position should not be misled by a leather skirt. However, if you find that you must sow your aging wild oats, I would be glad to take you with me on my next trip to Rio for Carnival."

  I looked at Baker with an expression of gaping wonder.

  “Now then, on to Gina's,” he said and strode off. I closed my mouth and hurried to follow.

  It was fully dark by the time we arrived at Gina's Juice Joint—a dimly lit storefront with a sizzling neon sign depicting bananas and strawberries tumbling into a three-foot rendition of a Waring Blender.

  While Gina was not to be found, Tony the manager walked over in response to our query. His prolonged gaze at my hairline indicated that Baker's ‘60s retro idea was a very bad fit.

  I adjusted the afro wig, which threatened to topple.

  “Hypatia? Sure, she works here,” he said and I saw Baker noticeably brighten. “Only thing is—” He paused. “You guys going to a costume party? Hey, we can supply the juice—"

  “We are interested in locating Ms. Theonsky,” Baker interjected.

  “Oh, yeah, sure, Hypatia.” Tony hesitated. “She sort of works here when she wants to. No regular hours, you know? We got two others like that. They call when they feel like working. I tell them, ‘You can't come until rush hour tomorrow.'—you know, like that. It saves me money and the workers, they can chill until they need some bread. It works out for the both of us, you know?"

  “When did she work last?"

  “Friday—no, wait, it was Saturday she came in for a couple of hours."

  “Do you have an address for Ms. Theonsky?” Baker asked.

  Tony shook his head. “Phone number. Over there on the wall next to the phone.” We found a list of names and numbers penciled onto the peeling paint of the wall.

  “That isn't going to be much help unless she's home,” I said.

  “Go ahead and call her,” Tony offered, “I got unlimited local."

  “Thank you,” Baker said, already dialing.

  I scanned the place as we waited. I was intrigued by a mammoth device behind the counter, apparently designed to accept several hundred pounds of oranges and mash them, skin, seeds, and all, collecting the juice and rejecting the refuse into a holding bin. It was appropriately labeled with an embossed sign: “The Big Squeeze.” There were only three or four patrons at the small tables and no one at the counter stools. A white haired old-timer in a berry-stained apron was sweeping the floor.