"Hello, Ms. Lang?"
"Yes."
"Thanks for holding. Yes, I have the record here: Jonathan Charles Anastole, age 52, died March three this year. The cause of death registered here was myocardial infarction. There's no indication of anything unusual. The exterior examination showed a couple of minor abrasions, but nothing that would be associated with cause of death. No organ abnormalities. . . . Blood alcohol negative."
"Is there a toxicological reportpoisons, neural agents, that kind of thing?"
"Those tests are specific. We wouldn't normally screen for them unless there was a reason to be looking for something like that. It wasn't requested in this instance."
"I see. Thank you."
"Would you like me to fax you copies of the death certificate and autopsy report?"
"Yes, if you would, please."
"The company is Prettis and Lang, you said? What is the fax number there? . . ."
* * * G
In movies and things like that, yes. But movies were made to escape into from unadventure and uniformity. Things like this didn't happen in real life.
". . . is it, Heber?"
Kevin shook himself back to real life. "Excuse me? . . . Oh, I'm sorry. What? . . ." Somebody with terminal-phase brain atrophy giggled at the back of the classroom.
"Jazz" Jarrold spread his hands, turned his eyes imploringly toward the ceiling, and went through his mime of mock martyrdom that always made Kevin feel that he'd missed his historical niche and should have been around at the time of the old silent movies.
"Heber, what is it? I work hard, I try. . . . I do my best to discharge the mission that the taxpayers of this fine Evergreen State of Washington have entrusted me with. What do I have to do to get your attention?" Kevin thought of saying, "how about making the subject interesting instead of trying to be the subject"; or, "project something we'd be motivated to want to emulate, instead of acting like an ass." Instead, he conceded with a weak grin and showed a hand apologetically. Jarrold took a step to stage left and turned with a flourish. "Oscar Wilde said that we live in a society that is overworked and undereducated. I'm trying to make a humble contribution to correcting that deplorable situation, and I would appreciate what measure of cooperation it is in your power to muster, particularly since you are the intended beneficiary of the endeavor. We were discussing the works of the Baroque composers. Where were youlost in computerdom again? So, could I have a little of that attention? Forget code and think coda, bass and not Basic. . . ." Jarrold paused, his eyes gleaming evilly with some inner inspiration that had just struck him. "In fact, you could say . . ." he was visibly fighting rising excitement as he strove to string the words coherently together, "it's the way to avoid growing up with . . ." Kevin saw it coming in its full awfulness a split-second before its triumphal delivery: "your Bach being worse than your byte!"
At least the rest of the class had the graciousness to groan with him.
"Good morning, this is the Ramada Inn, Patrice speaking. How may I direct your call?"
"Hello, Patrice. My name is Michelle Lang. I'm an attorney with the Prettis and Lang law offices. Could I talk to the general manager, please?"
"That's Mr. Willens. . . . He's not in his office. Just one second. I'll have to page him."
"Thank you." . . .
"Guy Willens here."
"Mr. Willens, my name is Michelle Lang, with the Prettis and Lang law offices here in Seattle. I wonder if I could talk to you for a moment about an incident that happened at the hotel about two months ago."
"What incident was that?"
"A man was found dead in one of your rooms. His name was Anastole, John Anastole."
"What did you want to talk about?"
"I'm trying to check some details as to the circumstances in which he was foundwho made the registration; if anyone else was using the room; whether the door was secured internally. That kind of thing."
"I couldn't release any information like that. I'd have to refer you to the police department."
"Would it be possible to tell from your registration records if"
"You have to talk to the police. We have a set policy with such matters. I'm sorry, but I can't help."
"I understand. Well, thanks for talking, anyhow."
"You're welcome. Have a nice day, ma'am."
It should have been obvious. What was she trying to do anyway, for heaven's sake? She wasn't that kind of attorney.
"Michelle."
"Yes, Wendy?"
"I've got Joe Skerrill at Neurodyne. He's on the other line now. . . ."
The yellow Ford was signaling to move in ahead, crossing right for the approaching exit ramp. Vanessa accelerated into the gap, forcing it to slow down and pull in behind. "My lane, lady," she murmured.
Sometimes she thought her whole life had been an obstacle course of people thrown in her way to stop her being what she was and getting where she wanted to go. The world operated to a double standard. She imposed no restrictions, made no demands, held nobody back from actualizing whatever potential lay within them to be expressed. The powerful would take unless the weak could organize to stop them, in which case they became the powerfuland then, as far as she was concerned, the laws that governed the play were the same. Meeting hard opposition to curb what others saw as "excesses," she could understand, even respect; but please, not some appeal to "right," "goodwill," or any of the other forms of guilt-based moral socialism in which the weak and the inept laid claim to a share in the winnings they could never earn for themselves.
And when, in a genuine effort to spare otherwise inevitable ugliness, you contrived to have somebody who had become a liability moved far away and set up comfortably for the rest of what could have been a much more protracted lifetime, what did he do but come back again, insisting on making more trouble! It was a different league now, with different stakes, from the one that Jack had played in three years ago. Jack had never risen beyond the class of specialist hired handlooked after well enough and paraded in all the right places, there when Microbotics needed that awkward legal corner smoothed over a little; but one of the outside flunkies just the same.
Eric had been a passport to the insidestimulating intellectually too, which was a relief. And for a while it had seemed they were bound for the inside summit, which lay in the global stratosphereuntil he turned out to have scruples where men worthy of the name had balls. Typical of scientists: eager to dispense wisdom on the running of the world, but only from the safety behind someone else's throne; posturing verbally to compensate for what they lacked the nerve to risk physically. Or they ran away to build their haven beyond the empire's borderswhich would last until the first legion of reality caught up.
Vanessa could have done without the complication of Kevin's being in the picture. But, materially he would still be better off than mostand perhaps even more so than otherwise, since this way the patents would be used more aggressively and effectively. He could even come out of it better in the long runmade of sterner stuff. It was hardly as if tragedy didn't happen every day, in any case. Sometimes it was just somebody's misfortune to be in the way. She could hardly rewrite the script of the world back to Day One.
As Payne's wife, she would come into joint control of a sizable portion of Microbotics, which, boosted by ownership of the by-then-reprieved technology and the deal that Ohira was talking about, would have appreciated to an impressive sum, indeed. Then, life would have acquired some truly interesting dimensions of possibility, cosmopolitan in scope and properly suited to her tastes. The only proviso was that in the meantime her spouse would need to overcome his narcissism and learn that there were greater things to aspire to in life than sailing his floating playpen and entertaining starlets with more boobs than IQ points. Otherwise, sad though it would be in some ways, one day, she might have to get rid of Martin. . . .
"Homicide Division."
"Hello, my name is Michelle Lang. I'm an attorney with the Prettis and Lang law offices in Seattle. I understand that one of your investigating officers was called to the scene of an incident that happened about two months ago. Could I speak to him, please?"
"What incident was this?"
"The deceased's name was Anastole, John Anastole. He was found dead in a room at the Northgate Way Ramada Inn on March third last."
"Anastole? Spelt O-L-E?"
"Yes."
"I'll check. . . . Here we areJonathan Charles Anastole?"
"That's right."
"That would be Officer Kollet. . . . Yes, he is in. Putting you through."
"Dave Kollet."
"Oh, hello. My name is Michelle Lang, with the Prettis and Lang law offices in Seattle. I wonder if you could help me with some background details of a case that you were called out to at the Northgate Way Ramada Inn about two months ago. A man by the name of John Anastole was discovered dead in one of the rooms."
"Just one moment. That was Prettis and Lang, in Seattle?"
"Yes. We're a law firm. I'm one of the partners."
"And we're talking about a John . . ."
"Anastole."
"Got it. Okay, well, I'm going to have to take your number and call you back on this. You're Ms. Lang, right? And what number are you calling from? . . ."
The premises of Microbotics Inc. were located among the space-age industrial developments and office parks north of Bellevue, just off Route 520 before Redmond. They consisted of a five-story metal-and-glass office building facing lawns, shrubbery, and the main parking lot; a laboratory block to one side; and two manufacturing units, which included stores and shipping, at the rear.
To avoid making her presence needlessly conspicuous, Vanessa drove past the visitor area in front of the main building and parked in the employees' lot at the rear of the lab block. She had called ahead, and Andy Finnion, Microbotics' head of security, was waiting for her. He was thickset and powerful in build, with iron gray hair cropped short above a lined, craggy face. His former background was with the city police department, which made him an invaluable accomplice to Payne's political and quasi-legal machinations. He worked competently and inconspicuously, and asked no questions. If he had one outstanding characteristic it was loyalty. Vanessa had always treated him as one to be particularly careful with.
"How was the drive?" he greeted as he held the door for Vanessa to get out.
"Bearable, I suppose. I think the geriatrics are all out on the road already, practicing for the holidays."
Finnion took her inside through a side entrance of the lab block and up to a room on the top floor. Martin Payne was there already, with the equipment set up ready for her.
The body-suit was a close-fitting mesh designed to stretch over skin contours, laced with a piezoelectric web that performed the two-way function of converting body movements to outgoing signals, and incoming feedback to pressure changes that would register as forces. The helmet was VR standard. A cabinet by the wall contained computing and conversion electronics, control console and screens, and a radio transmitter-receiver system connected to an antenna on the roof. In addition there was a secretary's desk, several office chairs, and incidentals.
Vanessa ran a startup routine and went through a couple of screens of initialization. Then she checked over the body suit and tested its connections. "It should all be okay," Payne told her. "We put it through a full run downstairs an hour ago. Phil is up in the mountains. I just talked to him on the phone."
Vanessa nodded. She indicated a door across the room from the one through which she and Finnion had entered. "What's in there? Can I use it to change?"
Payne pushed it open. "Just a small office. Sure, it's empty." Vanessa went through and closed the door. She took off her coat and hung it behind the door, then began changing out of her dress, into the body suit.
In the room outside, Payne paced across the floor and back, saying nothing. Finnion went out into the corridor and lit a cigarette.
"Ms. Lang?"
"Yes, this is Michelle Lang speaking."
"Oh, hi. This is Dave Kollet from Homicide Investigation calling back. Sorry it took so long. I got hit by something else just after we finished talking. A guy of eighty-five, with one leg, falls off the roof. His daughter insists it couldn't be an accident. She wants us to look into it. We get 'em all."
"Yes, Mr. Kollet."
"Okay, I have the case here. John Anastole, body discovered at the Ramada, March three. Now, what kind of questions did you have?"
"Well, I was interested in establishing more of the background circumstances. For example, if the door to the room was secured on the inside. Whether there were any signs of other occupancy. Perhaps damage to anything in the room. That kind of thing."
"Uh-huh. Can I ask you, Ms. Lang, what your interest is in this case?"
"I think the best way to put it might be to say that the deceased's death was of some financial advantage in certain quarters. I wanted to check whether there might be grounds for any suspicion."
"I see. Well, I'm sure you'll understand that this isn't the kind of information that we disclose over the phone to people we don't really know. Sorry for the inconvenience, but it will be necessary for you to come to the office in person if you want to pursue it further."
"Now I almost feel as if I'm a suspect."
"Ms. Lang, in our business, everybody is a suspect."
Sigh. "Yes, I understand. Very well, when would be a good time? . . ."
The teledirection program was running and would activate the VR interface as soon as the link was established.
Vanessa settled back in one of the office chairs and positioned the helmet. Finnion steadied it while she made fine adjustments and secured the chin harness. Payne stood watching, holding a phone. "How's it feel?" Finnion asked.
"That's fine," Vanessa said. She verified the graphics with a visual test, then executed a sequence of body and limb movements to check the motor control and feedback loops. The suit driver routines were set to high gain, meaning that slight body actions and muscle flexings would be sufficient to evoke the full range of perceived motions and tactile responses. Dramatic posturings and flailings weren't necessary. In fact, for most normal movements and gestures, with high-gain settings it was seldom obvious to observers that an operator was moving at all. Vanessa pulled down a menu of options, highlighted remote live, and selected the channel that she had pre-initiated.
The test pattern vanished, and she was on a floor of spongy fiber matting, inside a square arena formed by walls that appeared to be about twenty feet high. There was a stack of flat slabs inside the arena, and a sloping ramp. "Okay, Martin, I'm through," she said. Through the circuit patched into the audio, she could hear Payne punch a number into the phone.
Above the arena wall on one side was an underview of the armrest of a seat, with a protruding elbow clad in a yellow twill sleeve. Beyond that, like the vault of a cathedral interior, she could see the inside of a car roof and the top portion of one of the windows.
A ring tone sounded on the circuit. The elbow above her extended to become an arm, which then moved high above her like the jib of a crane, carrying a telephone handset. Phil Garsten's voice said, "Hello?"
"Phil, it's Martin. Vanessa says we're through on the link. You should be seeing some action now."
The mec was a horizontally postured design with six-legged, insect-like locomotionthe same one, in fact, that had dispatched Jack. The operator's arm sensors were coupled to the manipulator appendages, leaving each lower-body system to control a triplet of two-on-one-side, one-on-the-other legs working as a unit. Developing a steady walking rhythm required something of a knack, but there was no balancing act to worry about as with bipedal mecs, and Vanessa found it easier. She walked a slow circle in the upturned cardboard box lid on the passenger seat, pushing and pulling on each limb in turn and flexing the manipulators.
"It looks like it's working just fine to me," Garsten's voice said. Vanessa looked up. His face, curiously distorted by perspective, was filling half the view above and peering down at her, the arm holding a phone to one ear. "Jesus, this is weird," he said. "Just watching this thing moving down here, right next to you, is enough to give anyone the creeps."
Vanessa exercised the mec through a few more movements, then experimented with climbing the stack of calling cards and the matchbook. Everything seemed to be working fine. So, they knew the setup would work over an extended rangeninety miles, anyway, which was the distance to where Garsten was parked on a rocky shoulder by the side of a winding stretch of mountain road on the way to Barrow's Pass.
"Can Phil drive for about a mile?" Vanessa said aloud. "I want to try it with the car moving." Payne relayed the request to Garsten over the phone.
"Sure." High above, Garsten's face receded and turned away as he sat back in the seat. The arm transferred the phone to somewhere beyond Vanessa's field of view, then came back and turned the ignition key.
When the tests were through, Vanessa, Payne, and Finnion could go for lunch. That would give Garsten time to get back to Seattle and turn the "special" mec over to Vanessa. And they would be set. Today was Tuesday. By Saturday it would be all over.