Exceptions to Reality_ Stories - Alan Dean Foster [60]
Spitzer nodded indifferently. “You think this guy can do anything?”
“Well, I put the usual technical people on the trace, and they haven’t been able to run any surreptitious Wilburs to ground. So we might as well take a few of the citizenry’s tax dollars and head on up to the Big Worm-home. Either that or find a way to winkle ten million bucks out of the discretionary terrorism fund.”
Spitzer looked thoughtful. “I think we’d better try talking to this Rumford first.” They walked a little farther. “That was very strange, the Denver earthquake. And before that, the cruise ship going down. Of course, it was caught in a typhoon. A very sudden typhoon, but not unusual for that time of year in the Pacific. Or so I’ve read.”
“The ship was less than two years old. They’re not supposed to sink,” Hayes pointed out.
“No, they’re not.” Spitzer suddenly smiled. He had a charming, disarming smile. “We can take the eight PM express to Grand Central. Better not wait until morning.”
“That’s what I was thinking” were Hayes’s last words to his fellow agent.
Somewhat to the surprise of both men, Herman Rumford lived in a fine old brownstone in a notable Upper East Side neighborhood, among which were sprinkled elegant shops, overpriced restaurants the size of shoe closets, and a smattering of celebrities. Rumford admitted them not to a slovenly garret, but to a pleasant living room decorated with contemporary furniture and thick Chinese woolen rugs. The art on the walls, however, instantly notified both agents they were not in the presence of one of New York’s ubiquitous brokers, bankers, or political mavens.
Some of the subject matter was unapologetically horrific. Some was in appallingly bad taste. Some reflected views of the world and of existence that would have seriously distressed even the most tolerant priest. Some was authentically old. And somehow it was all of a piece, as one seemingly unrelated composition flowed unexpectedly into another.
“My collection.” Rumford was a short, thickset, fortyish fellow with shoulder-length hair tied back in a ponytail, dull blue eyes, and biceps that were more than blips beneath his shirt. He looked like a human grenade and reminded Hayes of a renegade cherub. “Not to everyone’s taste, I’m afraid. It’s part of my hobby. And my hobby is my life. I spend most of my time studying its ramifications and variations.”
“What is it that you study?” Spitzer loomed over their host like a sumo grand champion alongside a new student.
“Evil. I’ve made quite a study of it, with a view toward battling it wherever and whenever possible. You might say that we’re sort of in the same business, although for me it’s not a job.” He gestured for them to follow. “Of course, I don’t have access to the breadth of resources that you gentlemen do, but it’s astonishing what you can find on the Net these days. But then, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
Leaving the pleasant living room and its disturbing art collection behind, the two agents followed their host into a small, book-filled study. Potted plants, some of them reaching to the ceiling, brought a touch of tropical rain forest into the city. They had been well looked after. Two tall, narrow windows looked out onto the street. Queer sculptures and eccentric whatnots lay scattered about the dark mahogany shelves as if consulting the books neatly cataloged there. It was a reassuring contrast with the painted threats of the room they had just left.
“Not your usual hobby,” Hayes told Rumford, making conversation.
“It does demand a certain devotion.” Settling himself into a comfortable office chair, their host confronted an enormous LCD monitor. Not one, but several computers were arrayed against the wall beside the Spartan desk. It was more of a workbench, actually, Hayes thought. There were two other monitors, both