Architects of Emortality - Brian Stableford [15]
Although he was invisible, the impatience in his voice made it obvious that he was skeptical.
“Had you asked me yesterday whether this were possible,” Wilde stated punctiliously, “I would have said no. Clearly, I have underrated one of my peers.” Charlotte stared hard at the uncannily beautiful Oscar Wilde, trying hard to weigh him up. She wondered whether anyone in the world were capable of committing a crime like this and then turning up in person to confront and mock the officers investigating it. It seemed difficult to believe that anyone who looked so young and so perfect could be guilty of anything, but she knew that his apparent youth and apparent perfection were both products of ingenious technology. Wilde was not a man who could be judged by appearances—and those of his appearances that were entirely under his own control announced clearly enough that he was a man who loved artifice and ostentation.
Charlotte decided that if Oscar Wilde could be guilty of the primary madness of planning and committing a crime such as this, the secondary madness of revisiting the scene while it was still under the supervision of investigating officers might easily be within his compass.
“Someone clearly has the required technical expertise to do this, Dr. Wilde,” she said stiffly, to lend unnecessary support to Hal’s patient inquisition.
Oscar Wilde shook his luxuriantly furnished head slowly. He did seem genuinely perplexed, even though the apparent level of his concern for the victim and for the fact that a serious biohazard had been let loose left much to be desired.
“The technical expertise, my dear Charlotte, is only a part of it,” he said. “I might be able to cultivate the relevant technical expertise, were I to attempt such a thing. Perhaps a dozen others might have been able to do it, had they been prepared to put in the time and effort. But what kind of man would devote his energies to such a project for months on end? Who has a reason for doing this kind of work with this degree of intricacy? I confess that I am deeply intrigued by the sheer demonic artistry of the organism.” “I really don’t think that matters of demonic artistry are important here, Dr.
Wilde,” said Charlotte, taking sarcastic advantage of Hal’s continued silence.
“This is murder.” “True,” admitted the green-eyed man. “And yet—a great genetic artist is every bit as distinctive in his work as a great painter. Perhaps we might learn as much from the style of the creation as from its evident purpose. My presence here suggests that some such judgment is required. It seems—does it not?—that the UN Police Department was not alone in requiring my presence as an expert witness.” “What do you mean?” Charlotte asked warily.
“Given that it seems to be impossible that I was summoned here by the victim,” Wilde said, as though it were perfectly obvious, “I can only conclude that I was summoned by the murderer.” As if to provide a dramatic counterpart to this remarkable statement, the tape that was running on the wallscreen was abruptly switched off. Hal Watson’s face reappeared in its stead. “I find that hard to believe, Dr. Wilde,” Hal said, reclaiming the interrogation.
“It is hard to believe,” Wilde agreed. “But when we have eliminated the impossible, are we not committed to believing the improbable? Unless, of course, you think that I did this to poor Gabriel and have come to gloat over his fate?” Charlotte had to look away when he said that, and could only hope that she was not blushing too fiercely.
“I can assure you,” Wilde continued, still looking at Charlotte with arched eyebrows, “that although I disliked the man as heartily as he disliked me, I did not dislike him as much as that— and if I had for some peculiar reason decided to murder him, I certainly would not have revisited