Architects of Emortality - Brian Stableford [14]
“Can you be certain that it’s Gabriel?” asked Oscar finally.
“Absolutely certain.” Hal sounded strangely remote; the tape was still playing and he was reduced to the status of a mere voice-over.
“Do you know when he died?” “Yes—it’s all on camera. I suppose we’re lucky that he never made it back to the bedroom. The metamorphosis happened very quickly. It appears that the seeds of that plant devoured him as they grew, transforming his flesh into its own.” “Quite remarkable,” said Oscar Wilde. He said it very lightly, but the understatement must have been carefully calculated. “How did the seeds get into him—or onto him?” “We don’t know. We’re trying to trace his last visitor, of course, but it’s conceivable that the seeds might have been lying dormant in his body for some time.” “Fascinating,” Wilde opined, in a tone which seemed to have more admiration in it than horror.
“Fascinating!” Charlotte echoed in exasperation. “Wouldn’t you say it was a little more than merely fascinating, Dr. Wilde? Can you imagine what an organism like that might do if it ever got loose? We’re looking at something that could wipe out the entire human race.” “Perhaps,” said Wilde calmly, “but I think not. How long ago did he die?” “Between two and three days,” Hal told him, swiftly excluding Charlotte from the conversation yet again.
“He seems to have felt the first symptoms about seventy hours ago; he was incapacitated soon afterward and died a few hours later.” Oscar Wilde licked his full lips, as if to savor his own astonishment. “Those delightful flowers must have a voracious appetite,” he said.
Charlotte eyed him carefully, wondering exactly what his reaction might signify.
“I don’t have to explain to you how serious this matter is, Dr. Wilde,” Hal said. “Quite apart from the fact that the man must have been deliberately infected, the laws regarding the creation of artificial organisms hazardous to human life have clearly been breached. We need your help to find the maker of those flowers. Incidentally, do you happen to recognize the other flowers—the ones in the vase?” “Indeed I do,” the designer replied. “They’re mine—my newest line. I’m rather proud of them; I never suspected that Gabriel had such good taste. You realize, of course, that the flowers which have replaced poor Gabriel’s flesh are similar to mine in that they’re single-sexed flowers from a dioecious species? They’re all female, incapable of producing fertile seed. Our murderer isn’t as reckless as he may seem.” OUR murderer! Charlotte echoed silently. This investigation is becoming ridiculously crowded.
“Could you make plants like those, Dr. Wilde?” Hal asked insouciantly.
Oscar Wilde glanced sideways to meet Charlotte’s inquisitive gaze. She was at least six centimeters shorter than he, but she attempted to look at him as if their stares were perfectly level, trying with all her might to deny him the psychological advantage. He frowned slightly as he appeared to consider the question. Then he said: “It all depends what you mean by ‘like,’ Inspector Watson.” He was still looking at Charlotte.
“Don’t play games with me, Dr. Wilde,” Hal retorted. “Just answer the question.” “I’m sorry,” Wilde said silkily, his eyebrows arching slightly as he invited Charlotte to join him in a conspiracy of sympathy. “I meant no offense. I assume that you’re asking whether I could make a plant which would do what this one has apparently done—grow in the flesh of a human being, utterly consuming everything but the bones. I believe that I could, although I assure you that I never have and never would.” “And how many other people could do it?” Hal wanted to know.
“You’re going too fast, Inspector Watson. I was about to continue by saying that although I—and many other men—could design a plant to do what this one has done, I must confess that I could not have designed this plant. I could not have designed an organism to work with such astonishing speed and such amazing