by John Brunner
“We kids may not be as willing as they think,” she answered enigmatically. “I mean, to sort out other people’s mess… Shall we eat? If Bernie’s coming, we don’t have much time.”
At least this time the hacker arrived without muddy smears and a black eye, though the drizzle had turned to rain and the rain was, as ever, filthy. Accepting a beer, he sat down in what had become his customary chair.
“You heard about Claudia?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Selling fish that contains live anisakiais larvae is illegal in all EEC countries.”
“Maybe she contracted it in America—”
“The symptoms, including vomit tinged with blood, come on within a few hours. I’ve been checking.”
“Then she must have lunched at a sushi bar with sloppy standards of hygiene! Lord, do I have to tell you how the government has cut back on food inspectors? If there had been another series of Continuum that would have been one of the subjects we tackled.”
“Then I shouldn’t have to repeat what I just said. It is illegal to sell fish containing live anisakiais larvae.”
Peter stood rock-still for a second. Then he whistled.
“Got my point, have you?” Bernie grunted. “Even if she did catch it in a Japanese restaurant—and we dare not of course risk offending the Japanese, not so long as we’re begging to be readmitted to their economic sphere—the owner should nonetheless have received a call from the Bill and been ordered to prove his premises were not the source of the infection. It’s a notifiable condition. The hospital should have reported it immediately.”
“And they didn’t?”
Bernie shook his head. “Security on police reports from hospitals is so lax, they’re practically public domain. It wasn’t done.”
“Well, they are terribly overworked,” Peter murmured. “I suppose someone forgot.”
“Or else Claudia doesn’t have codworm at all.”
There was a pause. Eventually Peter said in a cold, thin voice, “Go on. Spell it out. I don’t think I’m going to like it, but—well, spell it out.”
From the inside pocket of his jacket the hacker produced a slip of paper, a computer printout. “Here. Take a look at this. I’m not supposed to have it, of course, but… Hey, did Claudia get to see Sister Higgins?”
Scrutinizing the printout and having to move it closer to a lamp, remembering that he had promised himself glasses some time soon—only until he found more work he couldn’t pay for a pair, since they were no longer available free on the National Health Service—Peter grunted, “Yes, and she is a patient at the hospice, not a member of staff. What’s more she’s completely gaga and not expected to live more than a few months… Grief! Is this for real?”
Crumpling the paper in his agitation, he stared at Bernie.
“Far as I know,” the hacker sighed. “At least I picked it up from an authentic source.”
“So she doesn’t have codworm!”
Ellen had been in the kitchen washing up. Returning in time to catch the last words, she demanded an explanation.
Summing up briefly, Peter rushed on, “But why? And how?”
Bernie spread his hands. “It’s a standard technique for losing unwelcome investigators for a while. MI5 and MI6 are fond of it, the CIA and the KGB both use similar methods… The idea is, you give someone a temporary ulcer—there are all kinds of local irritants you can slip into their food, in a capsule that will dissolve at the right point in the digestive tract—and then arrange a false diagnosis so they get the wrong treatment, ideally something that will make matters worse. After a week or two—”
Peter was on his feet. “For heaven’s sake! We’ve got to tell her!”
“Have you forgotten that she’s a foreigner, being treated in an NHS hospital, which is a rare privilege for anyone from outside the EEC, and—?”
“And she’s ill and in pain!”
“You’re going to march in and tell her doctor that he’s either a fool or a dupe?”
“But how could a doctor—?”
“People can be bent,” Bernie said succinctly, and emptied his mug of beer.
“You honestly mean—”
“Oh, grow up, will you? I’m only a few years younger than you, but I feel a sight older, I’m telling you! You ought to know what kind of a country this is turning into!”
Peter subsided slowly, clutching his own beer.
“Yes, I think I do,” he muttered, glancing at Ellen. “I was… Well, I was thinking along those lines before dinner. What do we do?”
“You must visit Claudia in the morning,” Ellen said in a positive tone. “And insist on talking to her doctor.”
“Ellen, dear,” Bernie said, rising to refill his mug, “it’s wonderful to be young and idealistic. But I’m afraid that if our home-brewed version of the Gestapo have got to that growser—”
“Why?” Peter burst out.
“That’s what I don’t know. But it’s what I mainly came to talk to you about.” Having topped up his mug and taken a long draught, Bernie fixed him with a glare.
“I’m quitting.”
“But—”
“Don’t say I can’t! I sure as hell can, and you’re holding the last scrap of data I produce for you! Call me a coward if you like, but I’m telling you straight: the fact that the heavy mob are trying to stop her from digging any deeper makes me worry about my own hide. Sorry. I’ll tell Jake in the morning—no point in depressing him while he’s trying to put an edition to bed.”
After a further gulp of beer he added mildly, “Besides, I think I’m up against a brick wall. Louis Parker is too smart for me.”
“I was going to ask—”
“And I was going to tell you. Sorry, the paper in your hand isn’t quite the last bit of data that I owe you.”
“Well, for God’s sake give me the rest!” Peter barked. “You’ve been looking for Louis Parker for bocky weeks, and never found a trace of him!”
“Nor have I now. But I’ve reached a conclusion.”
Peter felt his nails biting painfully into his palms. “Out with it!” he gritted.
“It is my considered opinion,” Bernie said, avoiding the others’ eyes, “that you are right about Louis Parker. And he knows it, and he knows you’re after him, and he’s—well—taken the appropriate precautions.”
“You mean the bastard has Special Branch in his pocket, not to mention NHS doctors?”
“It seems all too likely. Look!” He hunched forward in his chair. “I’ve run that immense search I told you about—run it as far and as long as the money would stretch. I do not find any trace of Louis Parker. You told me a bit about his background, his family being Armenian and so on, and you said he donated semen and he worked for a computer firm and—and so forth. I’ve cross-checked every reference I can, and he’s not there. You saw how Ellen located Sister Higgins by tapping into obsolete phone directories. If you try that for Louis Parker, you don’t find him. But you said he was a swinging man-about-town type; can you imagine him not being on the phone?”
Cold sweat was pearling on Peter’s brow. He was about to speak, but before he found the right words Bernie had charged onward.
“And don’t talk about ex-directory! If you know how to go about it, you can get anybody’s phone number, alive or dead! Or at least anybody’s who was around after they computerized the system. Also the passport office doesn’t know about him. Social Security doesn’t know about him. None of the major clearing banks ever kept an account in his name. I said before, and I say it again: he’s dug a hole, jumped in, and pulled it after him. And that spells trouble on a scale I don’t want to get involved with!”
Draining his beer anew, he rose to leave. On the way to the door, however, he hesitated. He had become aware that Ellen was staring at him.
“Is something wrong?” he demanded.
“Yes. You.” The girl rose from the couch and held herself very upright.
“How do you mean?
”
“You’ve taken money from the Comet to investigate this story that Claudia brought you. You didn’t treat it seriously at first. Now it’s turned out to be real news. You ought to be excited, you ought to want to push through to the end. Instead, you’re sliming out!”
Small face eloquent of disgust, she marched back into the kitchen and addressed herself loudly to the cat.
On the doorstep Peter said, “Ellen’s right, you know.”
“Maybe so. But I’m going to—to cover my ass, as the Americans would say.”
“And I’m going to put mine on the line!” Peter flared. “Tomorrow I’m going to do exactly as Ellen suggested!”
“What? Try and make Claudia’s doctor admit—?”
“Exactly!”
“Well, all I can say is I hope you survive! ‘Night!”
Next morning Peter had no trouble gaining admittance to Claudia’s ward. Pale, reclining against a heap of shabby pillows, she smiled appreciation of his visit—and stopped smiling when he surreptitiously showed her the computer printout that Bernie had forgotten to reclaim.
“Oh my God,” she whispered when its import sank in. “I’ve stumbled on to something even bigger than I first imagined.”
“Very big,” Peter muttered, glancing around to make sure no one was in a position to overhear—but an orderly was pushing an electric polisher across the floor, and that much noise ought to take care of eavesdroppers. “I’ve been thinking about it half the night because of what Bernie told me about Louis Parker.” He summarized rapidly.
“And if he is the father of all these children,” Claudia said slowly, “then—”
“Then what more likely than that he possesses at least some of their ‘talent’? No wonder he can dig a hole and climb in, as Bernie says, and still influence people like the doctor in charge of your case!”
“I still find it hard to believe,” Claudia sighed. “I could have sworn I’d been given an honest diagnosis…”
“Not according to that printout—which, by the way, I had better reclaim.” Peter suited action to the words. “I think you’d better get yourself transferred to a private hospital, and never mind how much of Strugman’s money it will cost. And you might well phone your lawyer friend, Mr. Stine, and— Well, you probably have a code, don’t you?”
Claudia nodded dully. “I don’t know how secure it is, but we change it pretty regularly.”
“I can imagine what Bernie would say about that… Ah, never mind. You get in touch. The Strugfolk must have a good many contacts.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Time to start using them.” Peter hesitated before adding, “Claudia, I hope you’ll forgive me, but—”
“Ah, shit. What for this time?”
“Well”—uneasily—“not treating this theory of yours as seriously as I now realize it deserved.”
“And I guess I ought to thank you, as well. After all, you aren’t exactly going to make international headlines with the story, are you?”
“Not until it breaks on the grand scale.”
“And now you know what we’re up against, that doesn’t seem likely— Oh, oh.”
A portly nurse was approaching like a ship under full sail, expression stern.
“Mr. Levin! You’ve been here longer than the regulation time. You mustn’t tire our patient.”
“Going, going, gone…” Peter tucked the printout back in his pocket, hoping it had not been noticed. But this was a “charity”—i.e. NHS—ward, and only in wards reserved for private, paying patients were there expensive luxuries like TV cameras to monitor their progress. He bent to kiss Claudia’s forehead.
Reaching up to embrace him, she whispered close to his ear, “If Bernie’s right, you know, it means that Louis Parker knows about his children—who they are, and where.”
“Oh my God!” Peter stepped back in horror.
“Now, Mr. Levin, you mustn’t upset—”
“She’s just upset me!” Peter snapped. “I hadn’t thought of that… I know who would have, though!”
“Who?”
“Ellen! She’s developing just the kind of paranoia I often wish I could have cultivated, because it’s perfect for a reporter!”
“Talk to her when she gets home from school, then,” Claudia said composedly. “And—nurse!”
“Yes?”
“Bring me a phone. At once. I believe my condition to have been misdiagnosed and I want to call in a second opinion. After that I plan to call my lawyer in New York with a view to filing suit for medical malpractice.”
The nurse looked blank. Peter donned a false smile.
“Do as she says,” he told her. “If not, you could be liable for damages, as I’m a witness to this sad affair.”
She strove for a moment to avoid compliance. Then she crumpled. But, as she turned away, the movement of her lips could be clearly read:
Bocky American!
“Cancer,” said the vet to whom Peter and Ellen took the cat that evening.
“But he’s so young!” Ellen exclaimed.
“Yes, about nine months, I’d say. But last week I delivered a litter of kittens that were riddled with tumors in the womb. I sometimes wonder, if we’re doing this to our pets, what we’re doing to ourselves and one another—”
He caught himself. He wore a red-white-and-blue ribbon on his white coat, and his hand flew to it as to a talisman, as to a crucifix.
“Well, I’m sure the government is doing all it can!” he concluded heartily. “But it would be kindest to have your cat put down. One wouldn’t want to prolong its suffering. Please sign this form… Thank you. That will be £25. We accept all major credit cards; please tell the receptionist which you prefer. Next!”
This far south it was still warm, although the business of summer was long over. The grapes and olives had been harvested and pressed; the tobacco—still grown around here—had been sold, along with the maize, whether for polenta or for oil. Almost the only touch of color in the gray-sandy landscape was to be found where families had retained tomatoes to dry or cook down into paste.
There was something old and dusty about the view David stared at from the passenger seat of the Alfa Harry had rented at Foggia airport. It was like entering one of the paintings he had been instructed to admire at school. When he was still obliged to attend one.
For the first time since their brief encounter he remembered the education inspector he had seduced (much in the manner of Garth or Roger, he could now think) after ensuring that he would never again be distracted by dull-witted teachers.
Now, though, he was distracted by far worse problems. One was simply physical: the food he had risked eating on the plane had given him a belly-ache, and with vast embarrassment he had twice had to ask Harry to stop the car, so he might crouch behind dry-leaved autumn bushes and void his bowel.
David did not enjoy being reminded of his base humanity.
Prompted by thoughts of Garth, he started worrying about another problem. He had assumed his siblings would be on his side, so it would be safe to leave Alice in charge of them and the house while he and Harry made this trip to Italy—based on a mere suspicion, yet one that struck a chord in his imagination…
No! It must have been worthwhile! My program said…
Distrust, abrupt distrust, fought in his mind with tattered hope. He strove to sort the data he was processing. (How long before he himself started to think like a computer?)
First—!
He compelled himself to face the fact that his siblings were not automatically his allies. The worst of his early fears were being borne out. They had, as he was learning, spent too long on their own, with no conception of partnership and cooperation.
Maybe I shouldn’t have risked leaving them…
His guts ached, his eyes were sore, he felt at his absolutely worst. The car trundled on, down potholed roads, while dust rose in their wake and sometimes ahead, when a tractor or a lorry was preceding them. The Alfa
had no air-conditioning, and it was too hot to keep the windows shut. When he licked his lips, he tasted grit.
It dawned on him that when he planned this trip and persuaded Harry and Alice to arrange it, he had been visualizing this rented car as identical to the Rolls Royce he was accustomed to. His hand kept groping for the keyboard and modem that would have allowed him to interrogate the programs he had left running when he came away.
And he wanted to know their outcome. Needed to! If this mysterious Louis Parker was indeed his natural father—!
“Left or right?” Harry demanded in a rasping tone. They had come to a T-junction.
“What?”
“Damn it, you’re supposed to be navigating!”
How dare you talk to me like that?
But David’s fury flared and vanished like the fuel in a pizza oven. He hadn’t bargained for a pain in his belly, or the debilitation due to constant diarrhea…
Mastering himself with vast effort, he glanced around. To the right, in the direction of the sunset, he spotted stone pillars framing the entrance to a driveway flanked by olive trees. Pointing, he muttered, “That looks like it.”
“It had better be! I swear I don’t know why I agreed to bring you here! Christ, I haven’t felt so ill in years!”
Oh, no. If I lose control over my “father,” what’s left for me to look forward to…?
But, summoning all his force, David laid a reassuring hand on Harry’s right wrist, not so hard as to delay him turning the steering wheel. When simple speech and presence didn’t work, contact tended to, as he had learned.
“Please, for me, drive to the house. You’ll understand some day, I promise!”
If Louis Parker is real. If he’s still alive. If I can track him down. If I can make him make me understand before I have to do my own explaining…
But if he’s dead, rather than in hiding? Or even—?
The alternatives were too terrible to think of. David said aloud, to quiet his mind, “Handsome old place, isn’t it? Shame it isn’t kept in better repair… Look, there’s someone we can ask.”
