Architects of Emortality - Brian Stableford [37]
“By virtue of his flag-of-convenience citizenship, Biasiolo avoided inclusion in most official records, but there is a DNA print allegedly taken immediately after birth. It doesn’t match any other print registered to any living person, but he evidently made a thorough job of building a new identity; the print attached to his current name is probably fake. Rappaccini continued to maintain a telephone persona until 2460 or thereabouts, but the sim involved was an elementary sloth. I can’t tell whether it was taken off-line or simply broke down. There aren’t many programs like that still functioning.” “Walter Czastka has one,” Charlotte put in.
“The only surprise in that instance,” Oscar Wilde adjudged, “is that Walter is still functioning.” “Given that he still hasn’t returned my call,” Charlotte observed, “he might not be.” “Have you turned up anything which might suggest a possible motive for King’s murder?” asked Lowenthal, who presumably suspected—as Charlotte did—that Hal’s concentration on the mystery of Rappaccini’s new identity might be something of a red herring screening the real substance of his investigation.
“We’re delving into King’s background, of course,” Hal assured him. “If there’s a motive in his financial affairs, we’ll find it. We’re examining every conversation he’s had since coming to New York, and we’re examining all activity in opposition to his demolition work. The truly remarkable thing about the murder is, however, the method. If we can understand that, we might be in a better position to understand the motive. Like Sergeant Holmes, I’m disappointed that Walter Czastka hasn’t returned our call. If he were to confirm Dr. Wilde’s judgment that the flowers were designed by Rappaccini…” “He won’t,” said Oscar Wilde airily.
“Why not?” asked Charlotte.
“Because the judgment required a sense of style,” Wilde said. “Walter has none.
He never had.” “According to our database,” Hal observed, “he’s the top man in the field of flower design—or was, until he retired to his private island to play the Creationist.” “Databases are incapable of forming opinions,” Wilde stated firmly. “The figures presumably show that Walter has made more money than anyone else out of engineered flowers. That is not at all the same thing as being the best designer. Walter was always a mass-producer, not an artist. Ancient Nature provided all his models, and such amendments as he made to the stocks extracted from the arks were mere tinkering. I’m afraid that you will be unable to find anyone capable of reassuring you that my identification of Rappaccini as the designer of Gabriel’s executioner was not a self-protective lie. The only man I ever knew with sufficient sense of style to be capable of offering an informed opinion is, I fear, Rappaccini himself.” He might have said more but was interrupted by a quiet beep from one of Hal’s comcons. A silver was reporting news that required Hal’s immediate attention.
The conversation lapsed while the Webwalker’s fingers raced back and forth across the relevant keyboard for a few seconds. The pregnant silence persisted while Hal stared thoughtfully at a screen half-hidden from Charlotte’s view.
Lowenthal had turned back to Wilde, but his expression did not seem to be redolent with suspicion; Charlotte hoped that her own was equally opaque.
After half a minute or so, Hal said: “You might be interested to see this, Dr.
Wilde.” He pointed to the biggest of his display screens, which was mounted high on the wall directly in front of them. His fingers danced from one keyboard to another, and then another.
A picture appeared on the left of the screen, covering about a third of the display area. It showed a tall man with silver hair, a dark beard trimmed