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CHAPTER NINE

It was late Friday evening in downtown Seattle. In her apartment on the Eastlake side of Lake Union, Michelle pushed herself back from the computer in the cluttered room that she used as a home office and stretched her arms back past the sides of the chair. In the dimmed lighting, the blue from the screen picked out her features, while the rest of the room reflected the subdued hues of city lights glowing on the far shore through the half-open drapes. Far to the left, the floodlit Space Needle stood as a backdrop, its flickering image mirrored on water.

New York had been a city of lights and water too, but there the water was a separate element, surrounding the city but as a thing apart, defining where a different existence began, like a dark, besieging force. Here, the water insinuated itself and mingled with the lights, was part of the city and its life.

The remains of a burrito-enchilada combination that she had called out for earlier in the evening lay in a foil tray with sauce cups, wrappings, crumpled napkins, and an empty Heineken can on the coffee table behind her chair. She'd had a dinner date with Tom tonight, but called and taken a raincheck on the pretext of an urgent case due on Monday that was going to take the whole weekend to prepare for. She didn't think he believed her, and she didn't really care that much. She just wasn't up to another evening of being subjected to a not-very-subtly-put line that a better life was waiting if only women would learn to loosen up a little more, like men; in other words, if she took the initiative and asked, he'd be agreeable. Instead, she had spent the time delving deeper into the matter that had taken up most of her afternoon.

The collation summarized on the screen was from an information search and retrieval service located in St. Louis, that she subscribed to—electronic news clipping. The volume of information generated by a modern society was simply too overwhelming to attempt tackling raw and undigested. Michelle had already read the items listed. They revealed more clearly than anything she had learned from Corfe the new upsurge of fears concerning DNC that seemed to be circulating among the technical community. In fact, she was probably already ahead of Corfe. Although it was he who had first alerted her, she didn't think he was aware of the full extent and the virulence of what was going on.

There was an article in another scientific journal dredging up all the old material from Microbotics again, plus making the totally spurious speculation that perhaps DNC was able to mimic the action of known chemical causes of neural malfunctioning—thus, by implication, linking DNC to a whole lexicon of mental disorders on the basis of no factual evidence whatever. An editorial in the same issue created horrific scenes of mass-demented children and teenagers if DNC were to be let loose in the Virtual Reality marketplace, while a suspiciously portentious letter in the Wall Street Journal called for a government-enforced moratorium. The subject had surfaced on three West-Coast TV channels, the tabloids had picked it up, and a lively exchange was already taking place on the Internet. And, certainly not coincidentally, over the last couple of days Neurodyne's normally robust stock had taken a three-point dive.

She had no doubt now that it was being orchestrated. Perhaps it was the image in her mind of envious scientists in collusion with money-running-scared mobilizing the media against one man with courage and an ability that outshone all of them that offended her. She picked through her thoughts, looking for a way of telling herself that it was simply her professional sense of injustice that was outraged, no more.

But there was more, something more personal. It was a disquiet that she felt toward Kevin and Eric because of what she perceived as their vulnerability—Kevin on account of his years and his circumstances; Eric because of his unbalanced stance toward the world—technically masterful, politically a rustic—that she had felt strongly for the first time that afternoon. She visualized the two of them again in her mind, heads bent intently over one of their creations in the lab, the one virtually an early copy of the other. Just the two. Why didn't she see Vanessa there too, in her mental picture?

That was it. She felt herself getting uncomfortably close to the root, now, of what was bothering her. She got up, moved to the window, and stood staring out at the bright tower dominating the night and the neon lights dancing on water.

Because Vanessa did nothing to make herself a place there. She had accepted the part but not the character. Vanessa would probably have scoffed and said they didn't need it; that Eric had his machines, and Kevin, his bugs. But Michelle didn't see things that way. To her, such preoccupation with the immediate meant that they needed someone to watch the longer term for them even more. What else had Doug Corfe been trying to tell her?

She felt frustration at not having made any more of an impression on Eric in her first attempt that afternoon than Doug had been able to. Now that she had more information to work with, she was impatient to try again. And if she was going with Eric and Kevin to Hiroyuki's barbecue tomorrow, maybe she wouldn't have to wait until after the weekend.

But before she tackled Eric again, there was one other person she needed to talk to, who might, conceivably, know more than anything she could gather from the kind of information that she had been collecting. She came back from the window, turned on the desk lamp, and found the number that Vanessa had given her. Then she called the Hebers' family lawyer, Phillip Garsten.

"Hello."

"Is this Phillip Garsten?"

"Yes, it is."

"Hello. My name is Michelle Lang of Prettis and Lang. We're the attorneys for Theme Worlds Inc., who are interested in a possible joint arrangement with Neurodyne in Tacoma. I understand that you represent the owners of Neurodyne."

"The Hebers. That's right, I do."

"Is this a good time to call?"

"As good as any. My team in the game here tonight are about ready for retirement. What can I do for you?"

"Well, I was planning to get in touch with you next week anyway to review the situation—Vanessa Heber has given me some of the background. But I'll be seeing Eric and some of the people connected with Theme Worlds again tomorrow, and there was something I wanted to check with you first."

"Well, Joe Skerrill is Neurodyne's corporate lawyer. You sure you shouldn't be talking to him?"

"Yes, I know. But this is about something that I think involves you more directly."

"Okay. Michelle . . . what was it, again?"

"Lang."

There was a short delay, presumably while Garsten wrote the name down. "Okay, what can I do for you?"

"It's about the DNC technology that they use. I'm sure you're aware that there have been allegations concerning adverse side effects."

"That's bullshit."

"Possibly—of course we'll have to go into it all at the appropriate time. But what I wanted to ask about was a man called Jack Anastole. I believe he was a partner of yours at one time."

Garsten's voice took on a cautious note. "Yes, he was. What about him?"

"It's all right, Mr. Garsten. I am aware of the recent unfortunate incident. But it's my understanding that he claimed at one time to be in possession of documented proof that the claims concerning harmful effects of DNC had been fabricated."

It all seemed straightforward and clear-cut. Michelle had reasoned that if Anastole had worked with Garsten, there was a chance that Garsten knew or might have access to whatever Jack had known. Garsten worked for Eric and Vanessa now, and Michelle represented interests that stood to benefit equally if the claims could be disproven. They were all on the same side. There was no reason for Garsten not to share what he knew—or at least to acknowledge that he was in a position to help, even if he chose not to go into details over the phone.

But it seemed that either Garsten knew nothing, or if he did, he had reasons for not seeing things the same way.

"I'm sorry Ms. Lang, but there's not a lot I can tell you," he replied. "Jack had a lot of dealings with Microbotics that he handled himself. I don't know what he might have discovered."

Michelle frowned at the unexpected brusqueness. "Did he have any records that might still be available somewhere?"

"Not with us. He took everything when he moved east. I was as surprised as anyone when he showed up back here again."

"Did he bring anything with him, as far as you know?" A spur-of-the-moment question. It seemed a possibility if Anastole had come back on business that involved Microbotics.

"I've no idea. Whatever was in his hotel room, I guess. You'd have to talk to the Seattle Police Department about that."

Impasse. Michelle sought for a continuation, but there was nowhere to go from there. "Well . . . I guess we'll manage either way. Thanks for talking, anyhow. I'll let you get back to your game."

"Huh. Bunch of geriatrics, all of 'em. Not worth watching."

"We'll probably talk again next week."

"I look forward to that."

"Goodnight, then."

" 'Bye."

Michelle replaced the phone. Well, it had been worth the try, she told herself. And there was no harm done that she could see. No harm done; but there had been that evasiveness in Garsten's manner, and the instant apprehension at the mention of Jack Anastole's name—sensed rather than explicit in anything Garsten had said. Was Garsten involved in the conspiracy that she was now convinced existed? She stared at the screen, thinking. . . .

But there was nothing further to be done about it tonight. Lawyers needed to go on more than just hunches. She switched off the machine and her thoughts with it. Going through to the living room, she mixed herself a vodka with tonic, a splash of lime, and not too much ice, and settled down on the couch with the remote to find a good movie.

 

In his house in the Magnolia district on the west side of the city overlooking the Sound, Phillip Garsten sat pinching his mustache and staring at the phone for a long time. Finally, he picked it up again and called a private line, but there was no answer. He tried another number and raised Andrew Finnion, head of security for Microbotics Inc.

"Andy, it's Phil. Do you know where Martin is tonight?"

"On the yacht. He's entertaining. I don't think he'd appreciate interruptions unless the world's about to catch fire. Why, what's up?"

"I've just had an attorney for that Japanese outfit onto me, wanting to know things about Jack Anastole. It's a 'she,' and she's asking too many questions. I don't like it. I think we could have a problem. Can you get in touch with Martin and tell him I need to talk to him before Monday."

 

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