Hard questions, p.2
Hard Questions, page 2
6
On that hot serene Sunday morning in the first week of September, a punt glided along the Cam under the mellow seventeenth-century stonework of Dame Elizabeth’s Bridge. Decorative cannonballs on the parapet railing seemed to balance precariously. The girl with the pole ducked low. As she crouched on the platform of the punt, trailing the pole as rudder, her sandy hair cascaded and her short bleached jeans skirt rucked up her tanned freckled thighs.
Lolling against a cushion, eyeing her, Orlando Sorel quoted suavely in French, ‘La chair est triste, hélas! et j’ai lu tous les livres.’
Georgette translated promptly. ‘The flesh is sad, alas, and I’ve read all the books. Mallarmé’s poem, “Sea Breeze”. You aren’t tired ofme , Orly, are you?’
As she straightened, shaking her mane, the punt drifted onwards. Across the lawns the knobbly Gothic spires and pinnacles of King’s College Chapel rose high against a sapphire sky. Half a dozen other punts, several with camera-ready tourists, lazed along the next stretch of the narrow river. A large dragonfly darted and hovered by the punt, then veered away.
‘So I come up to college specially, weeks early,’ declared Georgette, ‘and suddenly the flesh is sad! Is breakfast in bed such a bummer? Croissant crumbs in the sheets!’
Orlando brushed at his blue velvet jacket as if to dislodge phantom flakes of pastry. His floppy bow tie sported purple polka dots on a mustard background. The black hair which lapped his collar gleamed, somewhat oily. From beyond King’s, the University Church clock started to sound the chimes which had been copied at Westminster and all over the world; Orlando consulted his watch.
‘Don’t betouchy .’ He wouldn’t tolerate petulance in others. ‘Actually, I feel the need to get away. Not from you, my dear, but from Cambridge. A week in Paris might be amusing.’
Georgette began to pole enthusiastically along towards the next low bridge.
‘Catching Le Shuttle tonight. I do have some things to look at in the Bibliothèque Nationale. The fact is, I’ve done something slightly naughty.’
‘Do tell!’
Orlando pouted his lips.
As their punt neared King’s Bridge, back at Dame Elizabeth’s Bridge a wrought iron gate clanged shut. Through the Scholars’ Garden a man came running alongside the river. Orlando gazed, hoisting himself higher on the cushion. The man’s tweed jacket flapped. He clutched a newspaper like some baton which he must presently pass on to another hand.
‘Oh,precious ,’ drawled Orlando.
In his late forties, the runner. Neatly trimmed chestnut beard and moustache, receding curly hair. If he had been a few inches taller, he might have seemed robust. Being of less than average height, the impression was of a certain squat portliness. Still, he must possess stamina to keep up his pace — although his mouth was open, sucking in oxygen.
When the runner noticed who was upon the water, Orlando raised a limp hand in ironic salute. The man came to an abrupt halt. Puffing, he brandished the newspaper and shouted out, ‘Youbastard!You did this, didn’t you —?’
Idly, Orlando swivelled his hand and hoisted his index finger.
Since the bearded man was unable to walk upon water to reach his taunter, he could only glare and resume his sprint. Another wrought iron gate swung open and shut. He dashed across the bridge.
‘Goodness, Orly,’ said Georgette. ‘Jack Fox seems pretty steamed. Whathave you been up to?’
‘Oh, it’sdefinitely time for a trip to la belle France for me and my favourite pupil…’
It was also time for Georgette to crouch again, to pass under King’s Bridge, but Orlando’s attention was scarcely upon her.
7
His pace telling upon him by now, Jack Fox emerged at a jog-trot from the pinnacled gateway of King’s College and turned right along King’s Parade. He dodged ambling tourists. He angled across Trumpington Street, almost colliding with a bicycle.
Presently he was passing barred mullioned windows set in a wall the hue of honey fronting directly upon the pavement, before arriving at a castellated gateway. Coats of arms surmounted the Tudor arch. The statue of a bishop in red robe and golden crown prayed up above, sheltered by a portcullis-like half-canopy of intricate stonework. The stout oak double-doors were shut, but a wicket stood open. A knot of Japanese were eyeing the notice advising that Spenser College was closed to the public until the afternoon. They peered into the deserted main court. In the centre of the lawn a fountain sprayed from a conch shell clasped by Neptune.
Jack cut across the grass to the far corner of that front quadrangle. Another archway led to cool flagstoned cloisters surrounding an inner lawn. Panting, he dodged into a stairway.
On the second-floor landing, he paused to recover himself outside a door over which the nameDr C. Conway was neatly lettered. Chest heaving, he banged with the fist that clutched the newspaper.
‘Clare,’ he called, though not too noisily. ‘It’s Jack.’
Briefly he rested his brow against the oak.
He was soon admitted.
He almost hustled a slim woman in her late twenties back into her study. Fawn slacks. Thin beige turtleneck sweater, with a saffron motif of Rodin’s Thinker cradling his chin on his fist in cogitation. Her fair hair was swept tight into a ponytail.
‘Clare, have you seen this —?’
TheSunday Scoop ? Of course not – why have you bought that rubbish?’
On the third page of the newspaper loomed her photograph. She was standing upon a beach, naked, looking carefree. Her breasts were pale little compact apples. Her hair hung loose. Her groin was vague, an unfocused plastic doll’s. The story was titled:CAMBRIDGE PROFETTE SAYS YOUR COMPUTER WILL COME ALIVE.
Seizing the paper, she read falteringly, ‘If anyone can make your hard disk lively, Clare can, says theScoop …’
She started shaking, and subsided into a black leather armchair over which her academic gown with scarlet hood was draped.
‘Jack, I don’t understand —’
Bewilderment in that dainty oval face. Snubby nose wrinkling like a rabbit’s. Tears of distress, or even terror, in her pale blue eyes.
‘I popped out to the newsagent for a carton of milk,’ explained Jack. ‘Heather wanted to make a sauce, and if we waited for Luke to unglue himself from his computer we’d wait forever… Mr Singh in the shop said to me, “There’s a Cambridge story in theSunday Scoop , Dr Fox.” It’s Orlando’s doing, without a doubt! I actually saw him along the Backs – in a punt with some doting darling. He gave me the finger.’
‘South of France, last summer, that’s when. I remember! He only snapped one shot of me like that. I was an idiot to let him.’
‘You were feeling blithe.’
‘What a fool it makes me look now.’
‘The jealous petulant bastard! He’s trying to screw up our trip.’
Clare gaped blankly at the newspaper. ‘How bad is the write-up?’
On her desk a computer screen displayed the first page of the final draft of the talk Clare would be giving in Tucson.The Brain as a Computer of Light was the title. Books on anatomy, neurology and psychology populated shelves. Files had colonized half of a black leather sofa. One window stood open over a midget balcony occupied by blood-red geraniums in small terracotta urns. The door to her bedroom was open, the bed still unmade.
‘Fairly bad,’ admitted Jack.
‘Oh God,’ as she forced herself to read, ‘a journalist phoned me a few days ago. He said he was from theGuardian . Now it’s all here in this rag. Not in any sensible form, of course! Buzz words and juicy bits. “Brilliant Junior Research Fellow at Spenser College, Cambridge…” “Funded by Matsushima electronics giant …” “Fierce race for the quantum chip…” “Computers thousands of times faster…” “Quantums use alternative universes to do their thinking in…” “Profette Clare sayshuman brains use quantums – that’s how we’re conscious of being alive.”’ She groaned. ‘“So if computers use quantums, they’ll become alive too …” “Clare’s off to the Hard Question Conference in the Arizona desert to hammer this out. We hear it’s hot in those parts. Our hard question is: will she be stripping off there too?” I’ll sue them,’ she said. ‘Do you think I can sue?’
‘At least they air-brushed you a bit. Family newspaper.’
She thumped a fist on her knee as if to swat a fly. ‘I confirmed that bloody reporter’s queries, but not in these words. He sounded legitimate. Quantums, indeed! As if they’re tiny trained fleas, jumping around in a box. And this damned photo! What next? Do I pose forPenthouse in my gown? Sure route to academic esteem.’
‘If Orlando took the photo, I think he owns it.’
‘It’s my body.’
‘You mustn’t knot up, or you’ll get a migraine. May I?’ Jack moved behind Clare to massage her shoulders. She flinched, then she let herself relax.
‘Oh God,’ she murmured, ‘will he send Heather a clipping?’
‘Anonymously, like that wretched phone call…’
‘I’d much rather you stayed here, Jack, but what about the milk?’ The milk was a familiar item she could fasten upon.
‘I’ll tell Heather I bumped into, oh, Phil Martingale. He wanted to know all about which groovy gurus I’ll be interviewing in California after the conference. I have to indulge the head of faculty, don’t I?’
‘Wasn’t it Martingale who approved your travel application?’
‘Oh, back in May. He’ll probably have forgotten the details by now. What else can you expect from an expert on memory functions?’
Clare almost smiled. ‘I do need a friend right now – andyou’re that friend – but you’d better hurry home.’
Jack squeezed her shoulders.
She sighed and smoothed the newspaper over her knees. ‘Behold,’ she said, ‘my breasts, which Orlando has seen.’ Seen, and more than seen, as Jack knew achingly well. His glance towards the open bedroom was wistful indeed.
‘It’s inhibiting, isn’t it, this photo?’ she continued. ‘It acts as negative pornography – for us! I’m sure it’s part of Orlando’s scheme. To make me feel sick about sex.’
‘Surely he must believe we’ve already been to bed together —’
‘Hedid make me feel sick about sex. Specifically with him – so dominating of my feelings! I’m damned if I’ll have my emotions manipulated by him while I’m away in another continent!’
Jack could still hope. But another anxiety loomed.
‘What about the Matsu people, when they read this? I mean, the publicity aspect?’
‘Theycertainly won’t try to pressure me to cancel our trip at the last moment.’ She darted a glance at the computer screen. ‘But now I suppose I’ll have to cut out any speculative bits about quantum computers achieving self-awareness! I’ll stick to the main theme of quantum effects in the human brain.’
‘How can you be so sure Matsu won’t pressure you?’
She dithered. ‘Youreally must go, or Heather will smell a rat.’
‘The rat,’ he said, ‘is Orlando.’
‘Don’t get into another fight with him. Please, even if he tries to provoke you. It would only make matters worse.’
Jack nodded. ‘I might end up in court for assault rather than flying to America.’
Before Jack could make his departure, on her door there came several brisk rat-tats.
Jack opened the door to discover a burly elderly man with short grey hair dressed in black suit and crested college tie.
The head porter peered past Jack, disapproving stolidly as only a senior servant could.
‘Dr Conway,’ he announced to Clare with a blunt politeness, ‘the Master asks that you call upon him, as soon as is convenient. May I tell him you will do so?’
As Clare rose, the newspaper slid to the floor. The porter’s gaze followed it. ‘I see that you appreciate the reason, Dr Conway.’ So saying, Rogers departed.
Jack half closed the oak door.
‘Does Rogers scan all the newspapers in his lodge?’
‘Only the rubbishy ones. He never liked it when the college accepted women members.’
‘I hadn’t realized.’
‘That’s because you aren’t a woman. Now I’ll have to change into something dismal and wear my gown —’
8
When the walkie-talkie by the bed beeped, Gabriel Soul awoke and answered within a few seconds. Naked beside him under the silk sheet, Kath moaned softly and rubbed herself against him. Being privileged to share his bed that night, obviously she wished to make the most of it.
It must be all of two months since he had last taken Kath to his bed. All of the women in the community understood that to sleep with Gabe only once or twice was ample for their souls. They must never be possessive or jealous, or feel – if they were unattractive in the worldly sense – that he neglected them. Although Kath was cursed with a face like a horse, from the neck downwards she was a fine and enthusiastic filly. By now Gabe had thumbed on the halo lighting. He smacked Kath on her silken rump.
‘Not now, girl. I’m busy.Say again, Billy . You’re breaking up.’
A hundred tiny bulbs shone softly all around the edge of the ceiling. The bedroom could have been the interior of an enormous stretched limo equipped with a bed big enough for four persons. Sometimes the bed was used for three or four, during Gabe’s teachings. On such occasions he would set the halo lighting racing so that a luminous band sped around the room, comet-like, ever faster, an image of the soul accelerating ecstatically towards a transcendent climax.
In the soft constant glow as of now: some fine Monterey furniture, an open fireplace for burning mesquite logs, and erotic Hindu frescos adorning the plaster of the walls.
‘When you and Jersey get him here. Billy, rush him to the Truth Room. Keep him disoriented.’
Gabe laid down the walkie-talkie.
‘What’s happening?’ Kath asked.
‘Someone was snooping somewhere,’ he told her uninformatively.
‘Around the Shelter?’
‘No. Far away, and hours ago. Take yourself off, Kath. Share yourself. I need to meditate. I need to foresee.’
She slid obediently from the bed. Gathering a robe from the floor, she padded softly away.
Once Kath had gone, Gabe doused the halo lighting and thumbed the remote for the curtains. Drapes hummed open, admitting the bright moon. Sitting up high in bed, he stared out.
Between descending crags the land sloped steeply towards a desert plain dotted with creosote shrubs and fuzzy chollas. Mounds near at hand were spoil-heaps from long-abandoned silver workings. Miners had long ago stripped the vicinity bare of wood. Although there was water underground, feeding the deep well of the Soul Shelter, trees still hadn’t re-established themselves hereabouts.
A bat flitted across the window; then another. Bats had colonized the miners’ tunnels in the cliff which soared almost vertically behind the Soul Shelter, serving as its rear wall. The little beasts used some natural air shaft for their exits and entries. Just as well Kath missed seeing the bats. She hated those.
How submissively she had slipped away, even though she would be missing a full night in his bed after two months of what mundane minds might regard as neglect. This neglect had only enhanced Kath’s excitement, as he had known it must. Gabe had even toyed with the idea of spending the entire time with Kath in abstinence; but he had relented.
Blessèd Kath! Bereft of any close family until she had joined the Shelter. And so scared of death, until Gabe had shown her how to strengthen her soul through ecstasy. She brought a legacy of a million dollars with her, sufficient for many luxuries and defensive necessities, including Barrett rifles, AK-47s, .50 calibre machine-guns, grenades, a rocket launcher, better vehicles, a larger store of food, and the equipping of a special medical room to screen new recruits for AIDS and hepatitis, in case their certificates were false.
Gabe wouldn’t play favourites.
It wasn’t always easy being the leader of a community of sixty women and forty men, all sharing one with another. The certainty that their sexual rites fortified the soul, so that they would all survive after death, was the firm cement.
On a few occasions the cement had cracked. Gabe’s hard boys – amongst whom were Billy and Jersey, who were now heading home – had coped. A corpse or two had been buried deep in the desert.
An exalted passion – an amalgam of rage and rapture – came over Gabe as he gazed out. He would be the loving saviour of the world, and its judge, sorting out true souls from zombie-people.
Almost, he felt inspired to thumb a button and sound the summons bell, to bring a hundred people from their beds to the refectory so he could address them for an hour or more.
The vision which Gabe had experienced five years earlier was glowing in him: of a world full of zombie-people, of sham automata. True souls shone only here and there. And now the most insidious of the zombies were trying to focus science upon the soul. To dissect the soul. To create artificial souls inside machines.
Soon Gabe’s hard men would need to be very hard. They would be striking blows. If any of them died in the process, they could be sure of immortality. He could almost hear himself declaiming in the refectory already.
The guiding voice was rising up within Gabe. With an effort of will he relaxed. Now wasn’t the time to thumb that button, not with Jersey and Billy bringing their captive closer.
Far away across the flat, a tiny shaft of light dipped and dimmed at the head of a plume of moonlit dust.
9
In a large cellar cut from naked rock and lit by fluorescent strips, a big partitioned cage stood on steel legs three feet high.
Roped to a metal chair, and stripped to the waist, Andrei had been manhandled under the cage and up through a hole in the unoccupied half.
From the waist upwards he was enclosed. His arms were fastened criss-cross over his chest, held high. Straps on his wrists ran over his shoulders and down his back. He could move his elbows in and out like flippers in a pin-ball game.
