Doctor Who_ Cat's Cradle_ Warhead - Andrew Cartmel [9]
It was a conference call, three separate images appearing in squares on the walls, like portraits without frames. Each image stabilized at a different rate, coming in over different routes, via satellites then through Northern Global’s landlines.
The first caller was an Oriental woman. She was calling from an office. O’Hara could see some of the equipment on her desk at the edge of the image. She said nothing, not even looking up into the phone, continuing to work at something while waiting for the conference circuit to complete.
The second caller was young. Perhaps sixteen. He was dressed in a bathrobe, hair wet from a shower. He greeted O’Hara, combing his hair while he waited for the call to begin.
The third image remained a blank square of mint green. O’Hara couldn’t tell if it was the wall behind the phone or some kind of computer‐generated blind. Finally a woman stepped into frame. O’Hara didn’t recognize her.
‘Hello, can you hear me?’
‘Who exactly are you?’ said the Oriental woman on the wall above, looking up from her desk for the first time.
‘I’m Mr Pegram’s physician.’
‘How is he?’ said the teenage boy.
‘I’m afraid Mr Pegram died today.’
‘Again?’ said the boy.
The physician seemed to take this personally. ‘Mr Pegram has only died twice since I assumed supervision of his health control programme –’
‘We haven’t got all day,’ said the Oriental woman.
‘Or all night,’ said the boy, speaking from the other side of the world.
‘All I’m asking is that you don’t excite or disturb Mr Pegram too much.’
The physician’s image disappeared, replaced by Pegram himself, sitting upright in his medical harness. As far as O’Hara could tell, he looked a little healthier than usual, if anything. ‘What’s she been telling you, that quack?’ boomed Pegram. His speech was deep, mellow and virile, the synthesized voice of a young man, licensed from some popular entertainer of ten years ago and now controlled directly from what was left of Pegram’s larynx.
‘As much as I would love to discuss your health, Jack, there are other things which require my attention,’ said the woman.
‘Will you be represented at Brussels?’ said the boy.
‘My delegates can meet your delegates.’ The woman continued working while she spoke. ‘Obviously this is a very busy time and a critical time.’
‘Well, let’s hear it then,’ said Pegram. His old eyes stared at O’Hara over his plastic oxygen mask. ‘Progress report, boy.’
‘We are very close to completion,’ said O’Hara. ‘The mountain bunker will be finished by the end of the year.’
‘Is it going to be secure?’ said Pegram.
‘My engineers tell me that it will survive a small‐scale nuclear strike or any earthquake activity that is likely to arise in this region.’
‘So how long will the thing last?’
‘The hardware’s all self‐supporting. My engineers see no reason why it should’t last indefinitely.’
‘Indefinitely,’ said Pegram. It was hard to tell, but he might have been smiling behind the oxygen mask.
‘This is all secondary,’ said the Oriental woman. ‘The vital aspect is the success of the software. How close are we to an assessment of that?’
‘We’ll be obtaining the final test subject tonight,’ said O’Hara.
‘Call me when you have some results.’ The image went blank as the woman hung up. The boy shrugged. ‘Call me also,’ he said, and the second square of light faded on the wall. Only Pegram was left, staring out from the living‐room wall.
In the late night quiet of the dark room O’Hara could hear noises from Pegram now. His machines breathing for him.
‘This is a splendid enterprise,’ said the old man. ‘God will smile upon it.’ Unable to move his remaining arm, he just winked at O’Hara before the computer hung up for him. O’Hara continued looking at the blank dark wall for a moment, considering the lingering traces the phonelight had left on his vision. Then he went into the kitchen. He deliberately didn’t look at the two pieces of paper lying on the counter. O’Hara took a sweet pastry from the refrigerator and put it in