Foundation (17 page)
“
There it is ...”
Svensson stabbed his finger at something that had little resemblance to any terrestrial fish. According to the small silhouette of a scuba diver that had been drawn in the corner of the page for size comparison, the ‘beast,’ as he had called it, must be more than three hundred feet long. Its wrinkled, bluish skin was divided into segments like in a gigantic earthworm; its head wasn’t anything more than a rounded wart with a jagged hole at its center that could be the mouth, while its other end was a large and flat horizontal fin.
Svensson noticed the disgust on Trumaine’s face.
“
I agree with you that he isn’t exactly pretty to look at, but not all creatures count on sheer appearance as a means to mating. You see, the leviathan is blind. And despite the fact that he also lacks all the organs that Earth’s mammals use to communicate—a larynx, a tongue and teeth—he’s nonetheless able to relay signals to his peers.”
“
How does it do that?”
“
That’s an excellent question. That’s precisely what Jarva asked himself. When the answer dawned on him, it must have felt like a cold shower.”
At once, it dawned on Trumaine too.
“
They are telepaths ...”
Svensson nodded his head and smiled delightedly.
“
I must say I’m impressed, Detective.”
“
That’s what Jarva and Boyd were studying? Telepathy?”
“
Exactly. James Boyd had accompanied Jarva on his journey to Aquaria to help him to come up with this formidable bit of information.”
“
How come nobody knows about that?”
“
Once again, you’re on the right scent, Detective. How come such a devastating discovery has never been divulged before?”
Svensson made another long pause.
“
Five years ago, Jarva was on the verge of another epochal discovery. What happened instead? I’ll tell you: he was revoked all funds, his permit torn to pieces and he was forbidden to set foot on Aquaria ever again.”
“
I don’t understand ...”
“
You see, there are two reasons why research is suppressed. One, it’s useless. Two, the matter under investigation is too dangerous.”
“
But he was a Nobel Prize winner,” protested Trumaine. “A first-class scientist. Without his studies on the human brain, Credence wouldn’t exist. We would have been confined to Earth for eons. Why, then?”
“
The answer is quite simple. The research that Jarva was carrying out was too dangerous. You can’t deny that even Pistocentrism, without a proper direction, could have been the end of mankind. I was demanded by the Federal Authority not to divulge what Jarva had just discovered and to report all those who attempted at making it public.”
“
But ... how would they know about Jarva?”
Svensson exhaled disconsolately.
“
Because
I
told them ...”
“
You?”
“
I,
Jarva’s champion and close friend, betrayed him.
I
warned the Authority about the dangers of what Jarva was uncovering. It is
I
who prematurely ended Jarva’s blazing career as a scientist.
”
“
Why are you telling me?”
“
Because I owe Jarva. I would do it all over again, of course, if I had to. Nonetheless, I should promote knowledge, not hinder or conceal it. I feel like I have failed my purpose. I’m telling you all this in the hope that this information, which is and must remain confidential, can push you closer not only to discovering who killed a great scientist and a good friend, but possibly to shed some light on the circumstances of why a too shy alumnus who went by the name of James John Boyd killed himself ...”
Trumaine crossed the university hall, headed for the video message booths that lined the far wall.
He entered one.
It was a soundproof cubicle of frosted glass that included a flat monitor, a design stool bolted to the floor and a slot for the payment cards. As Trumaine inserted his own credit card, the large, obsidian screen hanging on the wall came to life, emitting a translucent pearl-white glow.
“
Call for Captain Grant Firrell, Department of Police,” requested Trumaine.
The monitor blinked its answer:
CALL SENT
.
After a few seconds, Firrell’s large face appeared on the monitor.
“
Trumaine. Any good news?”
“
Boyd knew Jarva. Five years ago, they were both on Aquaria. Guess what they were working on?”
Firrell shrugged. “You tell me.”
“
They were studying telepathy. As soon as the Federal Authority came to know, both their funding and their permits were canceled.”
“
Why is that?”
“
Potentially harmful research. A Lars Svensson, director of the Marine Biology Department of City University, told me. If Jarva were to find out that humans were capable of telepathy, you can imagine the dangers that would come from it. Just think about security issues.”
“
It looks like we’re getting somewhere, at last,” said Firrell, reaching out for a note lying on his desk.
“
I got news for you too. We might have found the car we were looking for. An illegal amateur street cam installed just outside the hotel parking got the plate of the Meteor ’55. We checked it
—
it belongs to a Steven Goldmar, 5657 Riviera Avenue. If you get a move on, you’ll find Eddie there.”
“
I’m on my way,” said Trumaine.
The sun sat low in the late afternoon sky, painting the ocean below it in a soft shade of gold nobody would’ve bought.
Trumaine drove along with the receding tide of commuters. Only when the City started to disappear behind him, he signaled and pulled out.
The unmarked car came to a secondary alley that brought him to one of the many suburban areas called “Riviera.” Even if it faced the ocean like the other Rivieras, this one stood just outside the City. Less touristic than its homonymous counterparts, it was provided with decent facilities, including schools, libraries and even had its own administration.
It was a perfect place for middle-to-mildly-high incomers who needed to be close to the City without the drawbacks of noise, traffic and high-rise buildings’ bad habit of standing in one’s light.
Number 5657 must be among the houses a couple hundred yards ahead, thought Trumaine and, soon, he could make out the familiar shape and color of the sienna sedan car belonging to Eddie Boyle, the forensic expert.
He pulled over and parked behind Boyle’s car.
Trumaine stepped up the mild ramp that brought him to the porch of a tall two-storied house facing the ocean. Like all houses on this side of the road, it had a private, direct access to the beach.
Number 5657 and its fellow neighbors didn’t look like prefab buildings, just like old-fashioned houses with wood panels painted white for walls and a saddle roof covered with shingles. Even if he didn’t see it from where he was, he knew that, hidden somewhere, was the ever-indispensable solar-cell circuitry that powered the house.
Under the porch of number 5657 sat the infamous Meteor ’55.
Trumaine approached and studied the front of the car: was there a slight hollow in the front hood, or was it a trick of the light? He wasn’t sure. He walked around the vehicle, peeking through the windows for any hint, but there was nothing special inside the car to be seen
—
except for Boyle.
He was patiently sweeping the scanning device in his hands in the recess under the driver’s seat. When he was done, he got out of the car and acknowledged Trumaine with a nod.
“
Found anything interesting?”
Boyle tilted his head; it was both yes and no, or it was none.
“
Hair, mostly. I think I’ve picked up a couple of cat’s ginger hair too. Plenty of DNA traces to sift through, anyway.”
Trumaine stepped to the entrance door to the house and rang the bell, but nobody came to open it.
“
Don’t bother,” said Boyle. “They’ll be touring the Greek islands for the rest of the month. The car’s been sitting here for more than a week now. Anybody could’ve picked it up.”
“
How do you know the Goldmars will be away for a month?”
“
The neighbor told me.”
Trumaine sat his jaw, thinking, until something else caught his attention: from the doorstep of the next house, someone was waving at him, motioning for him to come over.
Puzzled, shielding his eyes from the direct light the setting sun was casting, he stepped off of the porch.
“
Someone’s waving ...”
Boyle looked over too.
“
Ah. That’s the neighbor who told me about the Goldmars.”
Trumaine realized with a frown it was Faith ...
It had taken him less than a minute to walk over to Faith’s house. She opened the door for him, welcoming him with a large smile and the usual amount of enthusiasm.
“
Well, looks like you’ve found me, Detective. I surrender,” she said, lifting her hands over her head.
“
Or you could come in and try my special coffee.”
With a silvery chuckle, she stood aside for Trumaine to enter and they both went in.
The house was small and simple, its bright interior sparkling with colorful, ethnic furniture. A living room, a kitchen and a staircase that led to the upper bedrooms was all there was to be found on the ground floor.
A short-hair Indian runner slung across the living room, going back and forth between a couple of large African masks facing each other from opposite walls, looking like silent guardians.
The mask on Trumaine’s left was carved from a block of ebony and was polished and shiny. The other was more primitive and rough, was painted in gray and had a pointy chin, a crooked nose and a tapered forehead. Hair or something that looked like hair had been threaded into small holes at the top of the head, around the chin for a beard and at either side of the face—for sideburns, thought Trumaine.
Both masks had holes in place of their eyes. They gave him the queer, uneasy feeling that they were observing him from behind their hollow orbits.
The ebony mask guarded a large wicker crate. Also, to Trumaine’s left, were to be found a small sofa and an armchair. On the other side of the room, a couple of shelves hung on the wall, carrying transparent jewel boxes containing digital disks. In the far corners, toward the kitchen, sat two small tables overflowing with shiny knickknacks and whatnot.
“
It’s not much, but it will do for me,” said Faith.
She had waited in silence as Trumaine had perused the ground floor.
“
On the contrary, it’s cozy and personal. I like it.”
“
Sit down. I’ll be back in a minute with your coffee.”
Faith disappeared in the kitchen where, from behind the polished glass of a paned door, the ocean and the darkening horizon that bordered it could be glimpsed.
Trumaine took advantage of the time to snoop around. He moved to the tables containing the odds and ends. He slid his fingers over them, coming to some shell-encrusted boxes. He flicked them open; some were empty, some were filled with junk: cheap paste earrings, pewter necklaces and brass bracelets.
