“If I did,” Damon told him, “I’d probably want to sit on it awhile longer, just in case this business can be wrapped up quickly and quietly—but as it happens, I don’t. I was only ever told about Saint Conrad the Savior, in whose holy footsteps I was supposed to follow.”
“Were you ever given any cause to think that he might not be dead?”
“Quite the reverse,” Damon said. “According to his disciples, it was a major point of principle with Saint Conrad that an overcrowded world of long-lived individuals had to develop an etiquette, if not an actual legal requirement, whereby a dutiful citizen of the New Utopia would postpone the exercise of his—or her—right of reproduction until after death. If my foster parents are to be believed, my very existence is proof of Conrad Helier’s demise; if he were still alive, he’d be guilty of an awkward hypocrisy.”
“It’s Conrad Helier you’re really interested in, isn’t it?” Madoc suggested, running his neatly manicured fingernails speculatively back and forth along the edge of the smartcard that Damon had given him. “This Arnett guy is a side issue. You want to know if your natural father really is alive, and if the Eliminators really have grounds for resenting his continued presence in the world.”
“Concentrate on finding Silas Arnett, for the time being,” Damon said flatly.
Madoc nodded meekly. “I’ll put the Old Lady herself onto it,” he said. “She doesn’t take this kind of work normally, but she likes me. I can talk her into it.”
“I don’t want you hiring someone just because she’s a living legend,” Damon told him sharply. “I want someone who can get the job done.”
“Trust me,” Madoc advised him, with the casual air of a man who was as trustworthy as his own artificial graffiti. “Harriet’s the best. I knowthese things. Have I ever let you down?”
“Once or twice.”
Madoc only grinned at that, refusing to take the complaint seriously. “How are things otherwise?” he asked as he put the smartcard away. “Honest toil living up to your expectations?” Damon knew that what Madoc really wanted to know was whether he and Diana were washed up for good and all—but it wasn’t a topic he wanted to discuss.
“I’m thinking of taking a little break,” Damon told him. “I have some digging of my own to do tonight, but if I don’t get answers to a couple of calls I might have to take a brief excursion to Hawaii tomorrow.”
“What for?”
“Karol Kachellek is there, working out of Molokai. Like Eveline, he’s pointedly refusing to get back to me. He won’t want to tell me anything, even if he knows what all this is about, but if I go in person I might get somethingout of him. At the very least, I might unsettle him a bit.”
Madoc grinned. “You always were good at unsettling people. Is that it?” When Damon nodded, he let himself out of the car.
“Give my regards to Diana,” Damon said as Madoc began to walk away. “Tell her I’m sorry, but that it’ll all work out for the best.”
Madoc nearly turned back in order to follow that up, but he must have judged Damon’s mood more accurately than he’d let on. After a moment’s hesitation he kept going, answering the instruction with a calculatedly negligent wave.
As soon as the other car had pulled away Damon began to ask himself whether he’d done the right thing. Taking money from the legacy to bankroll Madoc’s investigations wasn’t really a betrayal of his determination to make his own way in the world—it was surely wholly appropriate that Conrad Helier’s money should be used in an attempt to find out what had happened to Silas, especially if it was Silas’s association with Conrad Helier that had given his kidnappers their motive. The real problem was whether Madoc’s involvement would actually help to solve the mystery, or merely add a further layer of complication. If he found anything damning, he would certainly offer it to Damon first . . . but what might he do with it thereafter? Even if Operator 101 could be thwarted, he might only be the first of many—and if Conrad Helier really had been an enemy of mankind, why should the secret be kept, even if it could be?
Damon checked the alarms on the car’s console, just to make sure that their inactivity really was testimony to the fact that neither Karol nor Eveline had replied to his calls.
They were in perfect working order; the silence was real. In fact, now that he was alone at the end of the alley the silence was positively oppressive. The night was clear and the stars were out, but they seemed few and very faint by comparison with the starscape he’d glimpsed in Eveline’s phone VE. Each one seemed set in splendid isolation against the cloth of black oblivion—and he had never felt as keenly as he did now that he was alone himself, a mere atom of soul stuff lost in a desert void.
“You’re going soft,” he told himself, unashamed of speaking the words aloud. “It was what you wanted, after all. No parents, no girlfriend, no opponents wielding knives. Just you, magnificently alone in the infinite wilderness of virtual space.”
It was true. The sense of relief he felt as he raced away from the gloomy badlands toward the welcoming city lights seemed far less ambiguous than what he’d felt when Diana had driven off and left him to his own devices.
Six
F
irst thing next morning, Damon obtained a reservation on the two o’clock flight to Honolulu. There was no point in taking the earlier flight because he’d only have had to spend an extra two hours in Honolulu waiting for the shuttle to take him on to Molokai.
He called Karol again, to warn him of his imminent arrival; the sim accepted the news impassively, as any AI would have done, but Damon took some small comfort from the fact that Karol would now have cause to regret not having taken the trouble to return his earlier call. Damon reset his own answerphone to make sure that if Karol chose to call back nowhe’d be conclusively stalled. He also put in a second call to Eveline Hywood, but he got the same response as before. In Lagrange-5 no one had to worry about frustrated callers deciding to put in a personal appearance.
It only took his search engine forty seconds to sort through the news tapes and Eliminator netboards for any mention of Silas Arnett, Conrad Helier, Surinder Nahal, or Operator 101, but it took Damon a further hour and a half to check through its findings, making absolutely sure that there was no authentic news. No one of any importance was issuing serious speculations about a possible connection between the Operator 101 posting and Arnett’s kidnapping, although a couple of newswriters had been alerted to Surinder Nahal’s unavailability by their search-engine synthesizers. So far, everyone in the public arena was whistling in the dark—just like Interpol.
Damon knew that he ought to do some work, but he hadn’t the heart to start the tawdry business of recovering Diana’s vital stats for the pornypop tape and the only other worthwhile commission he had on hand was an action/adventure game scenario which required him to develop an entire alien ecosphere. It wasn’t the sort of job he wanted to start when he knew he’d have to break off in three hours to go to the airport—especially when he had another option. He knew that it was just as likely to turn into a blind alley as trying to place a call to Eveline Hywood, but he figured that it had to be explored, just in case.
He packed his overnight bag and deposited it in the trunk of his car. Then he instructed the automatic pilot to find out where the nearest offices of the Ahasuerus Foundation were located and offer him an ETA. Given the size of the world—or even the USNA—he could easily have got an ETA that was the day after tomorrow, but the display assured him that he could be there long before noon.