Ghosts of Columbia (21 page)
Read Ghosts of Columbia Online
Authors: L.E. Modesitt Jr.
Tags: #Science Fiction, #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Alternate History, #United States, #Literature & Fiction
“O,’tis treason!”
Maybe I shouldn’t have, but, like a lot of things, what was done was done. Did Ralston and the president feel any guilt? Somehow, I doubted it, although the comparison certainly didn’t make things right.
“Hast thou affections?” asked Carolynne.
“You asked a good question. It’s just that I don’t have a good answer.”
“I wouldst thou didst.”
So did I.
“And with my heart in it; and now farewell.” She was gone. At least, she disappeared from view.
I shook my head. I was troubled, and I was tired. Mornings were coming too quickly, and while I couldn’t do much about the troubled feelings, I could get some sleep. So I turned out the lights and headed up to bed.
O
nce again, on Monday morning, I was off and running—not literally, since I skipped my dash to the hilltop—but I did force myself through a half hour of exercise before eating, cleaning up, and driving back down south to LBI through an intermittent sleet that turned into cold rain as I neared
Zuider. Early in the winter, Lochmeer did moderate the weather, until the vast expanse froze over.
nce again, on Monday morning, I was off and running—not literally, since I skipped my dash to the hilltop—but I did force myself through a half hour of exercise before eating, cleaning up, and driving back down south to LBI through an intermittent sleet that turned into cold rain as I neared
Zuider. Early in the winter, Lochmeer did moderate the weather, until the vast expanse froze over.
The Stanley was actually good on slick roads, despite its relatively light weight, because of the four-wheel-traction option.
I flicked the radio to KCNB, the classical station out of Zuider, and a program of postmodern music. Some of the younger composers, such as Exten and Perkins, actually developed harmonies that consisted of more than four-note tone rows. The only bad part was an Exten aria from
Nothing Ventured
sung by a tenor named Austin Hill. He just didn’t have it, strained the whole way through. Maybe he should have been a conductor—or a critic.
Nothing Ventured
sung by a tenor named Austin Hill. He just didn’t have it, strained the whole way through. Maybe he should have been a conductor—or a critic.
When the “Oratorio Hour” began, I flicked the radio to KPOP, just before I entered Zuider. Outside of the
Messiah
and a few other demonstrably endurable works, my tastes for oratorio, Llysette’s efforts notwithstanding, are clearly limited. Instead, I enjoyed Dennis Jackson’s version of
Louisiana,
even if he weren’t an operatic baritone.
Messiah
and a few other demonstrably endurable works, my tastes for oratorio, Llysette’s efforts notwithstanding, are clearly limited. Instead, I enjoyed Dennis Jackson’s version of
Louisiana,
even if he weren’t an operatic baritone.
After wading through the water and slush in the LBI parking lot, I pushed through the door, with its faint bleep, and up to the counter.
Without a word, Bruce emerged from the workroom and set the equipment boxes on the counter. Also without a word, I peeled off more bills.
Then I looked into the two boxes. The third gadget was simpler than the second, and looked somehow incomplete. Then I realized why. “These attach into the other gadget?”
“I believe you were the one who called it a perturbation replicator. This is the perturbation projector which attaches to the replicator. Now, if you want, we can just call them gadgets, but I defer to your nomenclature.”
“You really are ornery.”
“I do perfectly well on no sleep, impossible specifications for improbable hardware, and the concern that all sorts of people I haven’t seen in years and never wish to see again will suddenly appear.”
“But I like seeing you.”
“That’s true. I haven’t seen this much of you in years.”
“What was it that guy said in that cult second-rate movie—the beginning of a beautiful friendship?”
“Friendship is based on deception, and you destroyed any illusion of that long ago, Johan.”
“So … I am impossibly direct?”
“No. Merely improbably less indirect than the average Columbian. You’ll be all right so long as no one really figures out that you’re about as direct as a sharp knife.”
“Some already have. I’m supposed to stab the other guy, though, or take the fall for a stabbing that’s already taken place.”
“For a nice boy born of cultured parents, you’ve always played in rough company.”
“Tell me.” I closed the boxes.
“I have.” Bruce picked up the second and followed me out to the Stanley, where we placed them both in the front trunk. “I was more than gratified to be a mere technician.”
“Now you’re a distinguished man of commerce.”
“Times like this, I wish I were still an anonymous technician.”
“You’re better paid, and people like me don’t show up as often.” I shut the trunk.
“That’s also true, and your presence is always welcome. It’s the baggage with the clocklike sounds that bothers me.”
“I’ll try to leave it behind.”
Bruce just shook his head as I climbed into the steamer.
The roads were merely damp on the way back to the university. I stopped by Samaha’s and picked up my newspapers, which I didn’t bother to read before heading up to my office. As usual, I was one of the first into the department offices, except, of course, for Gilda.
“Good morning, Gilda.”
“You’re polite this morning.”
“Am I not always?”
“Not always, but on average. Doktor Doniger will not be in until late. He wired in that the ice on the lane was too dangerous.”
I snorted. “I live on Deacon’s Lane, and I got here.”
“Doktor Doniger is somewhat more cautious.”
I nodded, picked up a stack of administrative paperwork and circulars attempting to entice me into prescribing new texts for all my classes, and tromped upstairs.
“Good morning, Johan,” called Grimaldi from his desk. “I see you were one of the hardy few.”
“There was only a trace of slush on the roads.” I paused by his door.
“Any excuse in a storm, I suppose. What do you think—you were in government—about this Japanese nuclear submersible business?”
“Politicians who don’t have to face the weaponry they have built have always worried me.”
“Politicians don’t have to worry about facing weaponry of any sort. That’s the definition of a politician—someone who gets someone else to pay the bill and take the bullets.”
“You’re even more cynical than I am.” I forced a laugh.
“Amen.” He stood. “I suppose I will see you later. Or at tomorrow’s departmental meeting. I’m off to the library.”
“Cheers.”
He waved, and I opened my office. Then I sorted through the memos, ignoring David’s agenda for the departmental meeting, seeing as the top item was still
the business of deciding which electives to cut. Most of the papers I tossed, including the questionnaire asking for an item-by-item evaluation on the crosscultural applicability of my courses.
the business of deciding which electives to cut. Most of the papers I tossed, including the questionnaire asking for an item-by-item evaluation on the crosscultural applicability of my courses.
All four days of the
Asten Post-Courier
were full of stories about the Japanese development, but there was little I hadn’t seen already in the
Columbia Post-Dispatch—
except for one paragraph in Saturday’s paper..
Asten Post-Courier
were full of stories about the Japanese development, but there was little I hadn’t seen already in the
Columbia Post-Dispatch—
except for one paragraph in Saturday’s paper..
Among the attendees at the presidential dinner announcing the Japanese initiative was Johan A. Eschbach, a former Minister of Environment. Eschbach is currently a professor at Vanderbraak State University, recently rocked by a murder scandal and allegations involving clandestine psychic research funded by the Ministry of Defense.
I swallowed. Who had said anything about psychic research? VanBecton? His tame pseudo-watch officer? And tying the murder and the research to me was definitely unkind. After rummaging through the papers and my paperwork, I picked up the handset and dialed.
“Hello.”
“Gerald, I need a few minutes with you. How about three-thirty?” I was glad to hear his voice.
“I’m really rather tied up …”
“This isn’t about philosophy. I think you’ll be interested. I’ll see you at three-thirty.” I owed him something, even if he didn’t know he needed it. VanBecton wasn’t going to let him know, and Ralston certainly wasn’t. I took his “ulp” as concurrence and concluded with, “Have a good day, Gerald.”
As eleven o’clock approached, I gathered my folder, my notes, and the next quiz for Environmental Economics, half dreading the still-blank faces that I would see.
Gertrude and Hector were sweeping the remnants of water and frozen slush off the bricked walk leading to Smythe as I passed. Their breathing, and mine, left a white fog in the air.
“Good day, Gertrude. You too, Hector.”
“Every day’s a good day, sir,” she answered.
“Take care, sir,” added Hector.
I almost stopped. Hector had never said a word to me before. Instead, I just answered, “Thank you, Hector.”
Who was more real—the zombie or the ghost? Or did it depend on the situation? Or were they both real? Certainly, the government recognized zombies as pretty much full citizens, except for voting, but a zombie could even petition for that right, not that many had the initiative. But Carolynne seemed about as real as the zombies I knew, if eccentric; Miranda’s ghost, or my grandfather’s, hadn’t. I pushed away the speculations as I climbed the stairs to the second floor.
Nearly a dozen students were still missing by the time the clock chimed. The missing were the ones who hadn’t done the reading. So I smiled my pleasantly nasty smile and cleared my throat.
“As some of you have surmised, I have an unannounced quiz here. For those of you present, the lowest grade possible will be a D. Anyone who is not here who is not in the hospital or the infirmary will fail.”
Three or four of the students exchanged glances, at least one with an “I told you so” look. While I wasn’t exactly thrilled, what Machiavelli said about the ruler applies also to teachers. It is best to be loved and feared, but far better to be feared and not loved than to be loved and not feared.
I handed out the greenbooks first, then the test. “Write a short essay in response to one of the questions.” That was also what the test said, but multimedia repetition is often useful for the selectively illiterate or deaf.
After I collected the tests, we spent the remainder of the period discussing the readings. Most of those in class actually had read the material on the economics of environmental infrastructures. Some even understood it, and I didn’t feel as though I were pulling teeth. It continued to bother me that so many of them would only respond to force, even when learning was in their own self-interest.
Because I carried the tests with me, rather than stopping by the office, I made it to Delft’s, predictably, a good quarter hour before Llysette, and this time got a table close to the woodstove. With the chill outside, I knew she would choose warmth over a view of bare limbs and gray and brown stone walls.
Victor had just offered the wine when the lady arrived. I nodded to him to pour two glasses and stood to seat her.
“Good afternoon, Doktor duBoise.”
“Afternoon it is, Herr Doktor Eschbach. Good, that is another question.”
“Perchance some wine? This time it is at least Californian.”
Victor faded away.
“This is better.” She took a long swallow of the Sonoma burgundy. “Not so good as—”
“Good French wine, I know.” I grinned, and got a halfsmile, anyway. “What happened?”
“Forms! The Citizenship Bureau—they cannot find my residence report, and so I must complete another. They know I sent one, but …” She shrugged. “Perhaps someday they will let me become a citizen—when I am old and gray.” Llysette swallowed the last of her wine in a second gulp.
“What would you like to eat?” I refilled her glass.
“You would like?” asked Victor, appearing at Llysette’s elbow and winking, as he always did.
“La même, comme ça,”
she answered, her voice almost flat.
she answered, her voice almost flat.
“Oui, mademoiselle,”
he answered. “And you, Doktor Eschbach?”
he answered. “And you, Doktor Eschbach?”
“I’ll try the tomato brandy mushroom soup with shepherd’s bread and cheese.”
He nodded and slipped back toward the kitchen.
Llysette sipped her second glass of wine, looking emptily at the table.
“Bad morning?”
“Two of them-two lessons—they did not show up. No courtesy they had, and they did not even leave a message. Doktor Geoffries, he says he wants to observe my advanced diction class—and I have not taught this part before.” She glared at me.
I held up a hand. “I’m not your department chair.”
“I am sorry. All of this, it is so … so …”
“Frustrating?”
“Maddening it is.” She took another healthy swallow of wine.
Victor brought Llysette consommé, except it was warm, and my soup and bread. “Would you like your salad now, mam’selle?”
“If you please.”
Victor nodded.
“Have you seen Miranda’s ghost lately?” I asked Llysette.
She gave me a half-frown, half-pout, charming nonetheless, before answering. “
Mais non.
But never did the ghost enter my office, only the hallway.” She shrugged. “The ghosts, they avoid me, I think.”
Mais non.
But never did the ghost enter my office, only the hallway.” She shrugged. “The ghosts, they avoid me, I think.”
Victor eased her salad onto the table and deftly slipped out of sight.
The tomato brandy soup had big succulent mushrooms and was richer than a chocolate dessert. I spooned in every last morsel, interspersed with the cheese and bread.
“A good Frenchman you would have made, Johan. For the way you enjoy good food. The wine, you even appreciate.”
“I trust that is a compliment, dear lady.”
“One of the highest.”
“Then I thank you.” I lifted my wine glass. “Would you like dinner tonight?”
“Dinner, I would like that, but for the next two weeks I am doing rehearsals—except for the weekends.”
“Then we must make do with the weekends.” I sipped the last of my wine. “Some more?”
“Alas, I must go.” She stood. “With Doctor Geoffries watching my class …”
I stood, nodding sympathetically. Evaluations were never fun to prepare for. “Good luck.”
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