Architects of Emortality - Brian Stableford [71]
“He can’t see any evidence of a link to Rappaccini.” “That fault is in Walter’s sight, not in the evidence,” Wilde was quick to say.
“Even so,” said Hal, “the only name mentioned in Czastka’s report is Wilde’s—because he’s the only one known to have worked with the basic Celosia gentemplate. Czastka’s still on standby. I’ll send him the data on Urashima’s killer—and Kwiatek’s when we have it.” “Did you ask him about being at Wollongong with King and Urashima?” Charlotte wanted to know.
“Of course I did. He says that he doesn’t remember anything about events that long ago. He supposes that he must have known King, given that some of their courses overlapped, but he has no memory of ever having met Michi Urashima.” “He would say that, wouldn’t he?” murmured Michael Lowenthal.
“Got to go,” said Hal, breaking the connection.
Oscar Wilde immediately began tapping out a phone number on the comcon set in the back of Lowenthal’s seat.
“Who are you calling?” Charlotte demanded.
“Walter Czastka, of course,” Oscar replied with his customary equanimity.
“You can’t do that!” Lowenthal exclaimed. Charlotte was glad that he’d beaten her to it, because she knew exactly what Wilde’s reply would be.
“Of course I can,” said Wilde. “We’re old acquaintances, after all. If he’s involved with this business, I’m the best person to find out how and why—I know his little ways.” By the time he had finished speaking, it was a dead issue. The call had gone through and had been answered.
Charlotte could see the image on Wilde’s screen even though she was invisible to the camera that was relaying Wilde’s image to Czastka. She knew immediately that the face must be that of the flesh-and-blood Czastka, not his dutiful sloth. No one would ever have programmed so much wizened world-weariness into a simulacrum.
“Hello, Walter,” said Wilde.
Czastka peered at the caller without the least flicker of recognition. He looked very old—far older than King or Urashima—and distinctly unwell. His skin was discolored and taut about the facial muscles. Charlotte could not imagine that he had ever been a handsome man, and he had obviously decided that it was unnecessary to compromise with the expectations of others by having his face touched up by cosmetic engineers. In a world where almost everyone was good-looking, unmarked by the worst ravages of time and circumstance, Walter Czastka was an obvious anomaly. There was nothing actually ugly or monstrous about him, however. To Charlotte, he simply seemed ancient and depressed. His eyes were a curious faded yellow color, and his stare had a rather disconcerting quality.
“Yes?” he said.
“Don’t you know me, Walter?” asked Wilde, in genuine surprise.
For a moment, Czastka simply looked exasperated, but then his stare changed as enlightenment dawned.
“Oscar Wilde!” he said, his tone redolent with awe. “My God, you look well. I didn’t look like that after my second rejuvenation… but you already had… how could you need a third so soon?” Oddly enough, Oscar Wilde did not swell with pride in reaction to this display of naked envy. It seemed to Charlotte that Wilde’s anxiety about Czastka’s condition outweighed his pride in his own. This surprised her a little, and she wondered what motives Wilde might have for feigning such a response.
“Need,” Wilde murmured, “is a relative thing. I’m sorry, Walter—I didn’t mean to startle you. In