Architects of Emortality - Brian Stableford [33]
Oscar Wilde did not seem in the least surprised or reluctant to comply when Charlotte asked her two companions to wait in her office for a few minutes while she consulted her colleague in private, but Michael Lowenthal almost voiced an objection before deciding better of it. She could not tell whether he was being scrupulously polite, or whether he thought that there might be more advantage in remaining with Wilde. As soon as she had shown Wilde and Lowenthal into her room, the two of them fell into earnest conversation again, seemingly losing interest in her before she closed the door on them.
Charlotte made a mental note to review the tape before she went to bed, even if she had to do it in a sleeper on the maglev.
Charlotte saw no point in beating about the bush when she presented herself to her superior officer.
“I brought Wilde with me,” she said brusquely. “I think he did it. I think this whole mad scheme is a bizarre game. He may be a victim of mental disruption caused by excessive use of repair nanotech within the brain. He’s older than he looks.” Even in the dim light of Hal’s crowded quarters Charlotte was easily able to see the expression of amusement which flitted across the inspector’s face, but all he actually said was: “I know how old he is. Less than one-fifty, and already he’s risked a third rejuve—but every test they applied at the hospital says that he’s still in possession of a mens sana in corpore sano. I’ve checked his records.” “He knows far too much about this business for it to be mere coincidence,” Charlotte insisted, wishing that her argument hadn’t collapsed quite as feebly on exposure to the oxygen of publicity. “I know it sounds crazy, but I think he set this whole thing up and then turned up in person to watch us wrestle with it.” “So you think his introduction of Rappaccini’s name is just a red herring?” “He’s been careful not to say that Rappaccini’s guilty of the murder,” she pointed out. “When he told us that silly story about Rappaccini’s daughter, he pointed out that the murderer, if there was one, was a jealous rival. Wilde’s a flower designer, like Rappaccini—and he put on a convincing show of being offended when I told him that our first choice of expert witness was Walter Czastka. If this Biasiolo character hasn’t been glimpsed for decades, it’s possible that Wilde has actually taken over the Rappaccini pseudonym from its original user.” “It’s an interesting hypothesis,” said Hal, with an air of affected tolerance that was almost as excruciating as Oscar Wilde’s. “But my surfers haven’t found a jot of evidence to support it.” Charlotte hesitated but decided that it would be best not to continue. She’d put her suspicions on the record; the best thing to do now was to follow them up herself, as best she could. She figured that it would be sensible to change the subject of the present conversation—and there was a question she had been longing to ask.
“Who the hell is this Lowenthal, Hal? When you said that the order to copy him in came from upstairs I assumed that he came from upstairs too, but he says he didn’t. Who’s he really working for?” Hal shrugged. “Pick your cliche,” he said. “The Secret Masters. The Hardinist Cabal. The Nine Unknown. The Ice-Age Elite. The Knights of the Round Table. The Gods of Olympus. The Heirs Apparent. The Inner Circle. The Dominant Shareholders.” “The MegaMall?” Charlotte completed the sequence incredulously. “Why would the MegaMall be interested in this? King’s murder can’t possibly have any macro-economic implications.” “Everything has macroeconomic implications,” Hal informed her, although—as his