Disclosure_ A Novel - Michael Crichton [141]
The computer-generated Nichols moved down the hall to another drawer and opened it. He didn’t find what he wanted and closed it. He went on to another drawer.
Then he began reading again, and Sanders read this one, too: “ ‘Memo to John Marden. Cost issues re DigiCom acquisition’ . . . bla bla . . . ‘Concern for high technology development costs in new company’ . . . bla bla . . . Here we are. ‘Ms. Johnson has undertaken to demonstrate her fiscal responsibility in new Malaysia operation . . . Suggests savings can be made . . . Expected cost savings . . .’ How the hell could she do that?”
“Do what?” Fernandez said.
“Demonstrate fiscal responsibility in the Malaysia operation? That was my operation.”
“Uh-oh,” Fernandez said. “You’re not going to believe this.”
Sanders glanced over at her. Fernandez was staring down the corridor. He turned to look.
Someone else was coming toward them.
“Busy night,” he said.
But even from a distance, he could see that this figure was different. The head was more lifelike, and the body was fully detailed. The figure walked smoothly, naturally. “This could be trouble,” he said. Sanders recognized him, even from a distance.
“It’s John Conley,” Fernandez said.
“Right. And he’s on the walker pad.”
“Which means?”
Conley abruptly stopped in the middle of the corridor, and stared.
“He can see us,” Sanders said.
“He can? How?”
“He’s on the system we installed in the hotel. That’s why he’s so detailed. He’s on the other virtual system, so he can see us, and we can see him.”
“Uh-oh.”
“You said it.”
Conley moved forward, slowly. He was frowning. He looked from Sanders to Fernandez to Nichols and back to Sanders. He seemed uncertain what to do.
Then he held his finger to his lips, a gesture for silence.
“Can he hear us?” Fernandez whispered.
“No,” Sanders said, in a normal voice.
“Can we talk to him?”
“No.”
Conley seemed to make a decision. He walked over to Sanders and Fernandez, until he was standing very close. He looked from one to the other. They could see his expression perfectly.
Then he smiled. He extended his hand.
Sanders reached out, and shook it. He didn’t feel anything, but through the headset he saw what looked like his hand gripping Conley’s.
Then Conley shook Fernandez’s hand.
“This is extremely weird,” Fernandez said.
Conley pointed toward Nichols. Then he pointed to his own eyes. Then to Nichols again.
Sanders nodded. They all went over to stand beside Nichols as he went through records.
“You mean Conley’s watching him, too?”
“Yes.”
“So we can all see Nichols . . .”
“Yes.”
“But Nichols can’t see any of us.”
“Right.”
The gray computer figure of Ed Nichols was pulling files hastily out of a drawer.
“What’s he up to now?” Sanders said. “Ah. Going through expense records. Now he’s found one: ‘Sunset Shores Lodge, Carmel. December 5 and 6.’ Two days after his memo. And look at these expenses. A hundred and ten dollars for breakfast? Somehow I don’t think our Ed was alone there.”
He looked over at Conley.
Conley shook his head, frowning.
Suddenly, the record Nichols was holding vanished.
“What happened?”
“I think he just deleted it.”
Nichols thumbed through other records. He found four more for the Sunset Shores, and deleted them all. They vanished in midair. Then he closed the drawer, turned, and walked away.
Conley remained behind. He looked at Sanders and drew a finger quickly under his throat.
Sanders nodded.
Conley again put his finger to his lips.
Sanders nodded. He would keep quiet. “Come on,” Sanders said to Fernandez. “We’re done in here.” He started back toward the DigiCom Corridor.
She walked alongside him, then said, “I think