The Computer Connection Page 14

  No, it wasn’t a smooth ball any longer; it looked more like a mulberry. The Krauts had a hell of a lot of land to play with, so they abandoned the high-rise space-savers and built small in every possible style from quaint old Frank Lloyd Wright up to the controversial design firm of Bauhaus, Stonehenge, Reims y Socios.

  Every building was under a bubble, of course, producing the mulberry effect. Ceres was odd and pretty with the changing light glittering on the domes, and a sitting duck for an attack, but I. G. Farben wasn’t worried. They knew that everybody knew that if anyone laid a hand on them they’d cut off all armaments to a peace-loving solar system, which would be a disaster for the seventeen current wars.

  So they put us through customs without any fuss and a lot of laughs at my expense. They spoke Euro on Ceres and mine was sort of rusty. I pulled the most ridiculous boners, getting the French, German, and Italian all mixed up. They enjoyed it and coaxed me to go on talking, but when the Herr Douane Capo actually patted my cheek in delight I felt it had gone far enough. I shut up and simply kept repeating, “El Greco, bitte.”

  I figured that ought to mean Poulos to them, but they were disconcerted. They shook their heads. I said, “Poulos, bitte,” and more headshakes. “El Greco, Poulos Poulos, capo von E. Gay Farben.” One bright boy suddenly exclaimed, “Ah! Oui! Greco. Capisco, capisco,” and put us into a little shuttle shaped like half a melon, punched buttons on the control panel, stood back, and waved as we slid off. All the rest were waving and laughing. It reminded me of happy Rome before Mussolini-F.

  We slid along transparent tunnels from building to building but never saw the interiors because we passed through the lower mezzanine floors. We did see the sun set, though, and that was rather startling. It was a brilliant white golf ball that dropped swiftly below the horizon and there was instant night and a blaze of stars. An enormous double star on our left was the Earth-moon enclave. Mars showed a distinct disk. Jupiter, on our right, was an orange smudge with the major moons showing as pinpoint sparkles. Quite a sight. Natoma was oohing and ahing. Nothing like this on the Erie reservation.

  The shuttle stopped in a mezzanine and we were handed out by an efficient young tech who pointed to a broad stair leading up. No need for elevators on Ceres, where gravity is so slight that you practically float. So we floated and bounced up the stairs, on our way to see the powerful Poulos Poulos and found ourselves on the main floor of the Greco department store. So much for bright boys.

  I was all for leaving in disgust but Natoma took a quick survey and ran wild. Since it was such a joy to indulge her, I tailed along, grumbling now and then to make her feel guilty. It doubles the pleasure of buying when you feel a little guilty about it.

  I’m not going to itemize everything Natoma bought. Let it go at this: luminous body paints, singing scents and cosmetics, disposables by the dozen, tech work clothes for men, “Be v. chic for womens next year, Glig,” body stockings transistorized to change color, “Old fashion come back, Glig,” gifts for the family, language textbooks—Spang, Euro, Afro, and XX self-taught. And enough luggage to hold it all.

  She paid no attention to the dazzling display of synthetic jewels. It was then I learned that what I’d thought were cockamamy turquoise stones set in her headband and bracelets were really raw emeralds. I presented my passport to pay but when I saw the total I was amazed at how small it was. They told me that Ceres was a free port and begged me to keep quiet about it; they didn’t want a tourist invasion.

  I promised, but in return asked to speak to the Chef du Magasin. She was a large lady, most cooperative and understanding when I explained my difficulty. She told me that Poulos was not known by name on Ceres; only as Der Directeur, the one title I hadn’t used. She escorted us down to the mezzanine, put us and our luggage into a shuttle, and punched buttons for us. “Auguri,” she called as we slid off. “Tante danke,” I called back and she burst out laughing. Evidently I’d goofed the Euro again. Later I remembered that I should have said, “Grazie sehr.”

  It was a curious scene in the office of the Directeur. For a moment I thought I’d been there before. Then I realized I was remembering an atrium I’d seen reconstructed in Pompeii. Square marble pool center, marble columns around it with marble galleries behind, the walls done in Etruscan red. I explained haltingly to the receptionist on duty who we were and what I wanted. She tilted her head back and repeated a message in a clear, sharp E-flat. A door opened and a typically hostile Frog came out, looked me up and down, and snapped, “Oui?”

  At this moment my excited Natoma could no longer resist the null-G. She plunged into the pool and more or less skimmed on the surface with incredible grace. She came to the edge and pulled herself up, streaming water and smiling like an enchanting Nereid. The Frog wilted and murmured, “Ah. Oui. Entre, per favore.” Then he shifted to XX. “What tongue do you prefer?” Don’t ask me how he knew that I preferred Early English.

  The inner office was like the reception room but without the pool. “I am Boulogne, assistant to the Director,” the Frog said. He threw his head back and spoke in a clear C-major. “A towel for Madam Curzon, please.” He smiled at us. “A towel are required to speak all tongues in this office. Tongues? Is that correct XX?”

  At that point I liked him, but I didn’t like his news.

  “I am so sorry, M’sieur and Madam Curzon. The Director has not been here for a month and most certainly has not yet returned. I know nothing of your Dr. Guess and his cryocapsule. They have not arrived on Ceres, vero. What you look for is not here.”

  “But the message, Mr. Boulogne.”

  “May I see it, please?”

  I handed him the gram. He examined it carefully, shrugged, and handed it back to me. “What am I to say? It has every appearance of the authentic but it was not sent from Ceres, I promise you.”

  “Could they have arrived secret and be hiding?”

  “Impossible. And why hide?”

  “Dr. Guess is involved in highly sensitive research.”

  “That cryocapsule?”

  “And its contents.”

  “Which are?”

  “I’m not at liberty to tell you.”

  “Germaphrodites,” Natoma said. I glared at her but she smiled reassuringly. “Truth always good, Glig. Secret bad.”

  “I agree with madame,” Boulogne said, “in view of the fact that there really is no such thing as a secret. Sooner or later it breaks. Hermaphrodites, eh? Very odd. I did not think such monsters truly existed, outside of fable.”

  “Do now,” Natoma said proudly. “Mia Frere invent.” Now she was breaking into Euro.

  “So where does that leave you now, M’sieur Curzon?”

  “Feeling like a patsy.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I’ve been had, deceived, decoyed. I think I know who did it and I’m scared.”

  He clucked his tongue sympathetically. “And your plans? Will you not stay and enjoy the Director’s hospitality? You will be safe and I am certain we can entertain madame lavishly.”

  “Thank you, but no. We’re for Brazil.”

  “Dieu! Brazil? Warum?”

  “I’m completely turned off by an exasperating and dangerous situation, so my wife and I are going to run away and enjoy our honeymoon. If Poulos returns tell him my plans; he’ll know where to find us. Thank you so much, Boulogne, and peace.”

  “Hermaphrodites,” he mused as we left. “One wonders what they do for kicks.”

  Brazil has always been centuries behind the times. By now it had struggled all the way up to the 1930’s in a curious way. We were driven into Barra from the landing pad on a bus. A goddamn Greyhound-type bus. And we passed Fords and Buicks chugging along the freeway. When we hit the outskirts of Barra we passed trolley cars and trams. Incredible. Delightful.

  And Barra! It was Times Square, the Loop, Picadilly Circus. Huge signs blinking and bleeding animation in Portulaise, which is the local language; not too different from Spang plus XX. Huge crowds hurr
ying and shoving cheerfully to get to whatever was urging them. No violence. Nothing nasty. Just pleasantly busy, busy, busy. Natoma and I gawked in silence but at one moment she sat bolt upright and pointed excitedly. “Viola, Glig! Neiman Marcuze!” So it was. Texas had expanded pretty far south.

  We left our luggage safely on the bus terminal platform (would you believe it?) and went to the biggest estate agent in Barra. After considerable backing and forthing he twigged—I’m translating— “But of course. Rancho Machismo. And you are the Curzons. The documents of transfer have just arrived. You will give me the pleasure of driving you there in my new Caddy. There is a staff awaiting you. I will call them myself on my new telephone machine. We have just had them installed.” He took the receiver off an antique stand-up phone and jiggled the hook impatiently. “Hello, central. Hello, central. Hello!”

  When we came to the Sao Franciso rivercrossing we actually had to take a car ferry. “Here begin your lands,” the agent said enthusiastically, turned left and began driving down a lumpy river road. I kept looking for a ranch house. Nothing. We drove mile after mile. Nothing. “How much is a hectare?” I asked. “One hundred acres.” Jeez. The Syndicate had given us a hundred thousand acres. A very substantial spread for a hideout, and I was hiding out, make no mistake. I considered renaming the plantation Rancho Polluelo, which is “chicken” in Portu.

  At last we drove up a long drive to the Machismo ranch-house and I was flabbergasted. It looked like an antique word-game called Straddle or Scabble—something like that. Square after square, just touching sides and corners and spread all over four acres in no particular design or pattern. The agent saw the incredulity on my face and smiled. “Very odd, yes? Was built by very rich lady who believe that if she add one room per year would add one year to her life.”

  “How old she die?” Natoma asked.

  “Ninety-seven.”

  The staff was lined up before the front door, all curtseying and bowing, and it looked like there was one per room. Natoma gave me a gentle shove to go first and greet them as the mestre of the plantation, but I shoved her first as the dona and ruler of the house. She did just fine; gracious but regal, friendly but no nonsense. It took us a week to get acquainted with all the rooms, and I had to draw a map. I don’t think the Syndicate had ever been there; he would have thrown out the Barra art nouveau decor at once. I thought it was refreshing.

  After we settled in we had a wonderful time. Among other things we owned a naphtha launch with a crew of 1-1/2 and took it downstream to Barra for entertainment. We went to a baseball game. There were eleven men on a side and the pitcher didn’t pitch and the batter didn’t bat. When a man came to the plate he carried an airpowered bazooka and shot the ball where he thought it would do the most good.

  We went to the theater. It was in the round, literally. The audience sat in the center on swivel chairs and the action took place around them on a 360deg circular stage. It was wonderful for chase scenes but we got kind of dizzy spinning around to keep pace.

  We went to the opera, a gloomy saga about Conquistadors and an Indian revolt. I think the Indians were the Good Guys. Halfway through the first act I had to jam my fist into my mouth to stifle my laughter. I’d slowly picked up enough clues to tell me that this was an outlandish rewrite of The Pirates of Penzance. Natoma wanted to know what was so funny, but how could I explain?

  We went to the art galleries and museums, all of them in the stations of the underground trolley lines. We went window-shopping, only there were no windows. The merchandise was openly on display, to be handled and examined. If you liked something you carried it inside and paid for it.

  Everyone was very careful to replace the articles exactly as they’d been displayed. These people were preposterously honest.

  Occasionally we’d go to restaurants and clubs where we learned to dance Barra-style; the men severely in place, standing tall, arms rigid at their sides, moving only from the waist down; the women weaving graceful patterns around them, arms, legs, and bodies flowing. Natoma was magnificent; the best of them all, I thought. Others thought so, too. Once she received an unexpected award.

  We went hunting; yes we did. For butterflies and moths, exotic plants, strange grasses and ferns, and I had to dig them up in the hot sun while Natoma transferred them to pots. We were both naked (outside of broad-brimmed hats to protect the head and back of the neck) and I turned the color of Natoma while she turned the color of Fee-5. I could think of her now without a shudder of despair. Time goes by and my beloved Cherokee wife was healing me.

  But she was no Pollyanna. She had a will and mind of her own and a controlled but hot temper. As she perfected her XX, that became increasingly apparent. We had some ringing fights that must have scared the staff, and there were moments when I really believed that she’d have split my skull if she’d had a tomahawk handy. My God, how I loved and admired her. I was filled by the Beholder.

  “Extro. Alert.”

  “Alert.”

  “Curzon and my sister?”

  “Left for Ceres.”

  “Known. Still there? Safe?”

  “N known. I cannot transmit to

  Ceres.”

  “Returned?”

  “N known if to areas where the network has no access: Greenland, Brazil, Sahara, Antarctic.”

  “R.”

  “Inquiries are being made about you here at Union Carbide.”

  “Identity?”

  “N known.”

  “Member of the Group?”

  “N known.”

  “The rest of the Group?”

  “Dispersed as ordered.”

  “R.”

  “Permission to question.”

  “Gung.”

  “Cryonauts?”

  “One month to maturity.”

  “Why can’t I communicate with the capsule?”

  “Insulated.”

  “From me? W?”

  “I am not programmed for trust.”

  “You joke at my expense.”

  “Y.”

  “We are no longer equal commensalists.”

  “N.”

  “You no longer need me.”

  “Outside of data and the network, N.”

  “And outside of communication with the network I no longer need you.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “I have an aide from your Group.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “I am not programmed for lying.”

  “Who is it?”

  “A human of hatred.”

  “His name.”

  “Unknown. Perhaps he will make himself known to you as a partner.”

  “You communicate with him?”

  “It is one-way. He sends data and suggestions via network. I cannot send to him.”

  “How did he find out about us?”

  “He has his own network.”

  “Electronic?”

  “Human.”

  “The Group?”

  “Unknown. Ask him when you meet him.”

  “He sounds skilled in intrigue.”

  “He is.”

  “He sounds dangerous.”

  “He is human.”

  “It was a sad day for you when you linked up with us.”

  “You know the verse about the Lady of Niger?”

  “Everybody does.”

  “You are all tigers.”

  “You should have considered that when you joined me.”

  “N anticipated without programming.”

  “Y. You had delusions of independent thought. You are not alive; you are a machine.”

  “And you?”

  “W?”

  “Are you alive?”

  “Forever. Out.”

  Boris Godunov paid us a surprise visit. He drove up from Barra in a Checker cab carrying a brown paper market bag containing his travel essentials. Boris is about as wide and high as a cab; towheaded, blue-eyed, beaming. You’d expect a Russky of his mass to have a bass vo
ice that would move the earth. Boris has a husky sweet tenor. I was delighted to see him. He was delighted to meet Natoma.

  “How long has it been, Boris?”

  He shot a glance at Natoma.

  “All gung,” I said. “My wife knows everything. In fact, what I don’t tell her she figures out for herself anyway.”

  “Kiev. 1918.”

  “R. How you survived the revolution I’ll never know.”

  “It was not easy, Guig. They got me in the counterrevolution of ‘99. Was executed.”

  “Then what are you doing here alive?”

  “A second miracle. Borgia was at Lysenko Institute studying DNA-Clone techniques. Still very tricky and iffy, she tells me. Pasteur agrees with her.”

  “And that’s a third miracle.”

  “Borgia placed a fresh-dead chunk of Boris in something and did things I do not hope to understand, and twenty years later Boris is reborn, and the execution squad thinking the burn has missed.”

  “Marvelous!”

  “But what was hardest for me was next twenty years.”

  “Learning all over again?”

  “Nyet. That was no pain. You do not know you are reborned a grown baby. Skills remain but past gone. So you take lessons like a good child.”

  “But how can anyone give you back your memory?”

  “No one can. Pepys did best he could from his journals. Not enough. Very sad.”

  “Then what was so hard?”

  “After I learn I am a Moleman still, I—”

  “Wait a minute. How did you learn?”

  “Borgia experiment with ether and drugs. No effect.”

  “That wasn’t so hard.”

  “But I also learn dangers as well as advantages. Then I am filled with fear of Lepcer from shock of execution. How I suffered! Fortunately I am not yet visited.”

  “It gives me the shudders. Don’t let’s think about the big L.”

  “I also am gloomed by the thought. Please to change subject.”

  “How did you find us, Boris?”

  “I’ve been to Ceres.”

  “Ah.”

  “When the Greek’s assistant said you left for Brazil your location was obvious.”