A Highly Unlikely Scenario, or a Neetsa Pizza Employee's Guide to Saving the World (11 page)

What do you know about the Voynich? she asked.

Leonard and Felix shrugged.

Have a seat, she said. It's time I explained. Don't be uneasy: Peter is standing guard.

For some reason, this made Leonard uneasy.

Sit, Sally said. People always sit when I give my talks.

She opened the cabinet and pointed mechanically at the book.

This is the Voynich manuscript. The Voynich manuscript is the only unreadable book in the universe. It is written in a code that no one can understand. Emperor Rudolph II of Bohemia purchased this book in 1586, though the book is known to be older than that. The emperor was a strange man who amused himself with games and codes. He collected dwarves—Leonard and Felix knew better than to interrupt—and had a regiment consisting solely of giants. The manuscript was sold to him possibly by John Dee—an English navigator and spy who shared Rudolph's interest in magic and the occult. The manuscript passed through many hands, eventually being found in 1912 by Wilfrid M. Voynich. Hence the Voynich manuscript.

The Voynich contains 246 quarto pages, of which 212 contain mysterious drawings. These drawings are of botanical, astrological-astronomical, biological, and pharmaceutical subjects, which is to say, they're of plants, stars and planets, and so on.

Sally removed the dustproof cloth, which Leonard noted was not the one in which she'd blown her delicate nose. She placed it on the scholar table, then carefully opened the book so that Leonard and Felix could from that distance see drawings of plants—book-size versions of the drawings on the wall, which Felix was about to remark on out loud, when Leonard, sensing Felix's impending irruption, pinched his side. She covered the book again with the cloth.

This is where my lecture usually ends, Sally said. Because this is where it gets interesting. The Cathars are convinced that the Voynich reveals the secret location of the Holy Grail, though they are utterly unable to prove it. They'd like very much for it to be so because they don't have much left in the way of documentation. If they can crack the code and prove the book is theirs, they might attract new members. The Strawberry Parfait ice cream chain isn't exactly bringing them in.

I didn't know—

That Parfait is Cathar? Exactly! They've got no outreach, no philosophy they're willing to share with their customers, and besides, once you're fully initiated you have to starve yourself to death, and who wants that? But Parfait lucre helped establish this university. They're strangling Voynich studies: they'll only allow research that supports their point of view! We Latter-Day Baconians and some other inconsequential groups have been forced underground, practically.

Baconians? Leonard asked. He couldn't help himself. He had to know everything there was to know about Sally: if she was a Baconian, he had to know what that meant.

You don't know anything, do you? Sally said.

Leonard and Felix shook their heads.

I'll have to digress, then, won't I? Roger Bacon was an English scientist, scholar, occultist, and Franciscan friar who lived from 1214 to 1294, or thereabouts, or maybe from 1220, it's hard to know. He was the most brilliant man of his age. He wrote the Voynich! Really, you haven't heard of him?

Does he have a food chain? Leonard asked.

No! Sally said, disgusted in a way that pierced Leonard's heart. He decided he'd ask no more questions.

He was a Master at Oxford, then he taught in Paris. We don't
know where he was between 1247 and 1256, though I have my ideas. He became a friar in 1256, expecting that this would lead to another teaching position, but instead, a few years later, the Franciscans prohibited him from publishing. He eventually got around this through Pope Clement, formerly known as Cardinal Guy le Gros de Foulques, who instructed him in 1266 to write about the place of philosophy in theology. Am I speaking too fast?

No, Leonard said.

You have a glazed look on your face.

I think you're very pretty, Leonard said.

Sally stomped her foot. Her freckled cheeks became pink.

I need you to listen, she said. This is very important!

Leonard listens best when someone pretty is talking, Felix said. That's what he meant.

Oh, Sally said. Sorry.

Please, continue, Leonard said.

Where was I?

Leonard had no idea.

The place of philosophy in theology, Felix said.

Right. It was at this point that Roger Bacon produced the works for which he is most famous—and she pointed to some tomes beside her cot:
Opus Majus
,
Opus Minus
,
De multiplicatione specierum
.

Latin, Felix said.

Of course, Sally said. For the remainder of his life, Bacon alternately taught and suffered under house arrest, but this doesn't interest us.

It doesn't? Leonard said.

No, Sally said. Anyone hungry?

We should eat before I tell you the best part, the part nobody knows.

Jujuberries? Leonard offered.

Yuck, Sally said. Really, the only thing I like, besides legs, is, don't laugh …

Neetsa Pizza, Leonard said.

Sally looked at him with wonder and new respect.

How did you know?

Golden Mean pizza?

Yes! she cried. It's like you know me!

It's my favorite too! Leonard said.

We can order one from a greeter on the Walking Grounds, Sally said.

No, we can't, Felix said. He'd gone to the window, which he now opened. Sounds of mayhem exploded into the room—which is to say, shrieking, shouting, banging, clanging, more shouting, alarm whistles, and innumerable varieties of cacophonous song.

A riot, Sally said, as Leonard arrived to look over her shoulder.

Hundreds of neo-Maoists and food representatives were wrestling, throwing punches, and chasing one another around the Walking Grounds. Some carried sticks; others flaming torches. Strawberry Parfait soda jerks made rude gestures at pizza greeters, who brandished clipboards. Tapas chefs from Jack-o-Bites menaced scantily clad Whiggery Piggery barbecuties with kebab sticks. A tree in the middle of the ground was alight—the Heraclitans' doing, no doubt. Only the Dadaists
seemed uninterested in fighting: they were … yes, they were admiring a stoveroom sink propped against a jujuberry tree.

The music came from dueling musicians, established in different corners of the grounds—Leonard could make out the Heavenly Spheres rock band, some court troubadours, a suburban-peasant-worker chorale, bagpipes, and Whig fanfare, all egging their representatives on with morale-boosting melodies. Leonard couldn't help but feel Pythagorean pride as he heard strains of the Neetsa Pizza theme song.

The police are arriving, Sally said, and she was right: it was their alarm whistles they'd heard, and they were getting louder. A police caravan screeched to a halt and dozens of police jumped off the back, justice sticks and ID spray in hand, some still wearing their Chipmunk Patrol sashes. They began spraying and beating fighters and passersby indiscriminately.

Oh, no! Felix cried. It's Mom!
MOM!
he shouted in a voice so loud it set bells and sirens off in Leonard's head, and made the room tremble—then Felix was off, running from the room, Leonard after him, Sally grabbing her clutchbag.

Code yellow! she shouted to Peter as they made for the stairs.

When they got outside they saw something they couldn't possibly have imagined: everything—every person, every breeze, every insect, even the flame in the tree—had come to a stop, everything but the three of them, and what looked like Carol's red afro escaping around a corner. A policeman's justice stick was frozen in the air, his face a grimace, a Whig's fist was
immobilized two centimeters from a neo-Maoist kidney, and so on. Leonard stopped short, and then Sally, but Felix kept running toward the spot where he'd seen his mother. When he saw she was gone, he reluctantly returned.

What did you do? Sally asked him.

She's alright, Leonard said, taking Felix's hand. Your mom always is.

I want to go home, the boy whispered.

What did you do? Sally said.

It's hard to explain, Felix said. Can we go now, Leonard?

You've done that before? Leonard asked.

Only once. When the kids were about to throw me onto the municipal compost heap—

Don't you hate that? Sally said.

You too? Leonard asked.

It happens to all people of substance and quality, she explained, also taking Felix's hand. But you can't go home now, I'm sorry.

No, really, Leonard said, I think we should.

Did the policeman ID spray your mom?

Yes, Felix said.

Then he'll know who she is, right? She won't be able to go home; maybe they'll want you guys as witnesses. You don't want to have to admit that you saw her here, right? How long will this last?

Not sure, Felix said. Ten minutes? My health meter has to calm down first.

Let's do what we can while we're waiting, Sally said. Leonard, you grab the justice sticks, Felix, you bring that hose to that flaming tree, and I'll move people out of the way of some
fists. When I blow my whistle, we meet back at the shining sun, alright?

She blew her whistle once for good measure and they were off.

When they reassembled, Sally explained that they would have to go to a Baconian safehouse for a while, till things calmed down. She ran upstairs to leave a message for Peter, who she correctly guessed was also frozen. Which meant uncle and nephew got to watch as the rioters came back to life, slowly, as if drugged. Some swung softly at the air, falling off balance to the ground; policemen looked vaguely for their justice sticks; musicians made halfhearted tweets on their instruments; food chain representatives began groggily to stumble toward the periphery of the Walking Grounds.

It's funny, Felix said. Like a cartoon.

Except it's not, Leonard said. Look: some people aren't getting up. They could be seriously hurt.

Felix hung his head.

Not to worry, little chappie, Leonard said, mussing Felix's afro. I don't know how you did it, but you saved your mom, and lots of other people besides. You're a hero!

I am, aren't I! Felix said, and Sally was back with her black leather clutchbag.

Come on, she said. The library's about to go into lockdown. I got out just in time.

And Peter?

He's barricaded himself with the Voynich. He'll guard it with his life.

Sally flagged a wagonette and gave the driver complicated directions for a part of town Leonard didn't know. The driver offered to read their palms or call up spirits of the dead, but they were tired, and low on lucre.

Another time, perhaps, Sally said politely, and took the driver's card. All wagonette drivers were mediums, she explained. Leonard and Felix hadn't known that: they'd never ridden in a wagonette. Dime a dozen, she whispered, but helpful in an emergency.

What's your name? Leonard asked.

Sally looked at him blankly.

Your true name, Leonard said.

Sally, she said. You're not much of a listener, are you?

Leonard was about to object, both to her inconsistency and her characterization of him, but already it was time to leave the wagonette.

It turned out it wasn't possible to drive to a safehouse directly. After the wagonette, you caught a caravan, then an underground railway, then you walked a verst or two, always turning corners and doubling back and looking over your shoulder. Only then could you arrive at a house that looked just like any other house from the outside except for a sign that read:

Leonard had thought a safehouse would be, well, safe, with security guards and reinforced, steel-studded walls, but this looked just like a house. There was a living room with a comfortable-looking settee and padded swirly chairs and the ruins of someone's solo-game. Posters with curling edges were taped to the walls—one of something that looked like a star system, another of an old-fashioned man named Doctor Mirabilis. The living room led to a dining room, where a half dozen young people sat around an oval table.

Is that revolutionary stew? Leonard asked before he knew what he was saying. He was hungry; he assumed Felix was too.

Who's your neo-Maoist boyfriend? a boy with face spots asked.

We're not Maoists, Leonard said. We're nothing, really.

They're Baconians, Sally said. Though they may not know it yet.

You shouldn't bring just anyone here, the boy said, standing.

Shut up, Dwane, Sally said. Several of the others giggled.

The boy took Leonard's picture with his navigator watch, pressed a button on the side, and examined the results.

Leonard, he said. My man Stan! Leonard is interested in caravan schedules, Cathars, Marco Polo, and some useless Stan named Isaac the Blind. Why, you're a regular Renaissance Stan, aren't you, Leonard? Oh, Dwane added, looking more closely at his watch, as if he'd nearly missed something, Leonard has an abiding interest in Sue & Susheela. Hey, Sue & Susheela! You have a fan here in Stan the man!

From what must have been the stoveroom walked the very
same, holding identical blue dish towels. Leonard blushed all the way to his shoulders.

I admire your, uh, performances, he mumbled.

He wants to know if you're married! the boy shouted.

That's enough, Sally said, and to Leonard's surprise, Dwane sat down.

Pleased to meet you, Stan, Sue & Susheela said in unison. They smiled and returned to the stoveroom.

Pretty, Sally whispered, but not Dwane's best work.

You guys have been intercepting my Brazen Head communications? Leonard asked.

You hear that? Dwane said, looking around the table for laughs. He's wondering if we intercepted his Brazen Head communications! A couple of boys giggled.