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sixty years earlier than Ali Zaman.” “If he’d carried on in the 2320s,” Hal opined, “he’d have ended up like Michi Urashima: a sacrifice to the forces of convention. He’d have ended up in the freezer, while the masters of the MegaMall divided the work up into manageable packets and made sure the transformations were properly tested on animals before they started work on dismantling the legal restraints. They’d have been right to do it. These things have to be properly managed. We’re not living in the twentieth century.” “The spin-off from Michi Urashima’s pioneering efforts wasn’t properly managed, though,” Charlotte pointed out. “Not the bits that Rappaccini took it upon himself to carry forward, at any rate.” “From now on,” Hal judged, “they will be.” “Does the scroll explain why Moreau did it?” Charlotte asked curiously. She was still harboring the faint hope that Oscar Wilde might have got it completely wrong and that Moreau’s madness had not been quite as divine as Wilde insisted.

“It does include some teasing comments about the ethics of scientific research, and a slighting reference to the quality of Walter Czastka’s artistry, but there’s no detailed explanation of Moreau’s motives. He seems to have decided to carry the final solution to the mystery to his grave—unless, of course, he had such perfect trust in Wilde’s skills as a detective that he was content to leave that side of the matter to him. Fortunately, I’m not required to include speculations as to motive in my own report.” “The news tapes won’t be content with that,” Charlotte observed wryly. “The vidveg always want to know Why? “The news-tape mongers won’t give a damn what we say or don’t say, so long as they have the charismatic Dr. Wilde to supply all the lurid fantasies they need, and a few more besides.” “What about the court?” Charlotte asked.

“It won’t get to court,” Hal told her. “Once the psychologists and neurophysiologists have completed their reports, all charges against the woman will be dropped. There’s no doubt that she wasn’t in control of her own actions; she doesn’t even have any memory of what happened. She’s the Robot Assassins’ worst nightmare—but however reckless Moreau may have been in other respects, he certainly did his best to make sure that his chief pawn came through it all. It seems that she’ll make a full recovery.” “She’ll simply walk free, then?” “Not exactly. She’ll be quietly given into the custody of the Secret Masters of the MegaMall. Not as a prisoner, of course, but as a valued employee. They’ll pay her whatever salary she requires in exchange for her full cooperation.

There’s a great deal they can learn from her, or so they hope. It’s dangerous knowledge—but it’ll be even more dangerous if others decide to follow in Moreau’s footsteps and we don’t have the means to prevent them.” Charlotte thought about that for a few moments. In the long run, the entire Moreau affair might come to be seen as mere window dressing for the proof that it was possible to make brainfeed equipment that would turn humans into mere robots. That knowledge would now be entrusted to the Hardinist Cabal—but were they safe custodians? And if not them, then who? She realized that the repercussions of this remarkable series of incidents would extend over centuries—and that she, Charlotte Holmes, had been privileged to see the whole drama unfold from the best seat in the house.

If only she had been able to play a more active part… “Walter Czastka could have offered his talent and his enterprise to the Ahasuerus Foundation,” Charlotte pointed out when she had decided that she needed more time to mull over the other matter. “If he didn’t want to set himself so far outside the mainstream of scientific research, he could at least have given them what he had and pointed their people in the right direction.

Instead, he decided to cultivate his and everyone else’s gardens: not merely to make flowers, but to make flowers to make money. Not only did he refuse to become an Ali Zaman, he even refused to become an Oscar Wilde. Not, apparently, the kind of