= = = = = = =
CHAPTER 20
Kárax stood there, leaning almost nonchalantly against the podium, then realized his pose lacked the necessary gravitas as he scanned the crowd of scholars, most of them attentive, a few already showing some impatience. “Ironing out the business before we begin is always tedious,” Kárax admitted, “so I shouldn't blame them.” He cleared his throat. Most of those were younger, the newly acclaimed ones, the eager-to-impress generation of freshly minted researchers, who despite their early accomplishments always have that pervasive sense of insecurity lurking within their otherwise self-satisfied auras.
“International representatives,” Kárax resumed, “here from every discipline of human knowledge, have begun gathering at the Abbey of Santiago, perhaps feeling like an additional thousand martyrs, to engage in what can only be called a most significant challenge, unaware what possible success, if any, its outcome or its potential impact on the future might be.
“Whatever we compile here,” Kárax continued, “whatever you want to call it, whatever we choose as its ultimate title, whether it's thirty volumes or two hundred and thirty, will be considered a single work. Once it is finished, published, and distributed around the globe, it may be a thousand years before anyone will read it.
“Every discipline has been given its own code number, each volume its unique accession number which places it in the continuum. Given the nature of it, it's possible our collection might stretch to infinity.”
Kárax imagined half his assistants if not most of those members present were convinced his opening remarks would stretch to infinity. He took a sip of water and again cleared his throat, creating aural punctuation between topics he felt important to cover. In his notes, he'd called this section “Mechanics” and scribbled beside it, “boring.”
“The editorial council has already been arguing for some time, even before assembling our scholars, about every facet of its organization, not necessarily just what language it should be in – but I'll start there.
“Everyone agreed it should be in three languages, one being the vernacular, with a common denominator acting as a kind of lingua franca, whatever that may be in the future, if one even exists. Following the Rosetta Stone, we decided English should be one of the control languages; either Arabic or Chinese, depending, the other.”
He saw hands about to be raised, whether with questions or objections, especially the Icelandic linguist Óskiljanlegsson who's always championing Esperanto.
“Please,” Kárax said, raising both hands for patience, “hold any disagreements for later? I am concerned here only with introducing the Basic Mechanics – it says here, 'boring,' see?,” holding his notes up, “right here.”
A few chuckled but others reluctantly lowered their hands, frowning. How did he ever hope to have everybody working smoothly together if he can't even get through the introduction without people ready to argue?
“Each volume will begin with its own basic primer for each of the included languages which, thinking of it as the Rosetta Stone, may help someone unfamiliar with any of them 'crack the code.' We can't count on someone a thousand years from now who'd be able to understand 21st Century English – much less Esperanto.
“The challenge of comprehending the subtleties of philosophy or mathematics will be difficult enough in a language you already speak much less in something as remote from modern English as Chaucer in the original. What do we hope people who live in the future will understand where they speak Hungarian or Bantu or Farsi today?
“Could Arabic or Russian be dead languages familiar only to archaeologists, or Chinese the equivalent of Latin today, studied by scholars? Will there be scholars then? Will anybody remember English had even once existed?”
Sure he's offended everybody on the basis of their national culture, Kárax moved on to the next topic, “Presentation of Content,” which would more than likely rattle a few more egos before he'd finished.
“History, obviously, will be chronological but first a summary of the facts before any commentaries on their various interpretations, causes, effects. As far as the sciences are concerned – and I'm including math and the broader, general, more technical aspects of engineering, here – these should be alphabetical by discipline (sorry, zoölogy) and subdivided accordingly by topic. There's still discussion about being chronological within the necessary background leading to today's conclusions, the historical material kept for later so future readers aren't literally reinventing the wheel every time we've reinvented the wheel. We want them to know what we now know, leaving the historical aspects to those interested in how we got here.”
Without looking up, Kárax raised his index finger, knowing there would be hands poised for questions or objections, before moving ahead. “Basically, we recognize the need for flexibility, so it's not a one-pattern-fits-all approach. We also recognize the importance of interpreting the facts to include balanced commentary that might prove confusing to an inexperienced reader. Ideally, though that's an impossibility, we intend to stress these diverse opinions are there for someone unused to our scientific approaches to draw their own conclusions through the process of discovery, experimentation and deduction.
“Scholars, you are summarizing your field of expertise, so realize you are writing not for your colleagues but to give the fullest understanding possible to a reader who's a complete novice about your field. Given various technical details, think also of the translators' plight trying to make sense of this in the simplest language possible. Your assistants will help with organizational details, and those working with me and the Editorial Board will annotate them, create an index, insert cross-references, add bibliographical material as needed. So much for the mechanics.”
Looking up, he added, “So far, we have only our own planet's knowledge to codify: let us be thankful for that. Our purpose is serious, the task daunting, the reason for its necessity dispiriting. If I mention the Norns, I would cross-reference Dr. Skuldhilde Brekhester's volume on Norse Mythology, and so I introduce her, now.”
In her youth, the statuesque Dr. Brekhester had been dubbed “The Striking Viking” by a thoroughly unoriginal American press when her first book appeared in 1971, Understanding Ragnarök (which, of course, no one did). Still imposing, her pewter-gray hair twisted in an ornate plait to her waist; all she needed was a helmet with horns. Unfortunately the microphone could not be adjusted for her – she stood several inches taller than Kárax who had graciously stepped aside; fortunately, her voice was powerful enough, her accent aside, she needed no amplification.
“We talk about the 'Dark Ages' as this monolith of ignorance,” Dr. Brekhester began, “yet men figured out how to build great stone cathedrals despite an abundance of illiteracy and of warfare and plagues. Someone could unearth the past, thanks to Arabic scholars in Baghdad and in Spain, out of which the Renaissance was born.
“The origins of this period, these Dark Ages, is vague; no one singular apocalyptic event caused it to happen, though English and Frenchmen like to blame the Vikings,” she added with an enigmatic smile. “For a future Dark Age, our options apparently include nuclear war, another asteroid, climate change, or some new wave of pseudo-barbarians. And while dinosaurs had no way to overcome the effects of an asteroid or a global Ice Age that destroyed them, humans today have ways we might preserve our civilization, assuming humans will survive.
“Unless the future belongs to bacteria or some expeditionary force from an alien planet, or some other life-form not yet discovered, we've proposed this 'Key to All Human Knowledge' or whatever we'll call it. It all depends, doesn't it, on how the World-As-We-Know-It will end. Perhaps only a few copies of this Compendium will survive. It may only take one of them to be discovered and trigger a discovery so momentous, our future's understanding of our past will change, may in fact renew us, or what's left of us.”
She described scenarios where research, like the Rosetta Stone, the Dead Sea Scrolls, or even those fragments of ancient Greek tragedies, has taken years to decipher, artifacts full of holes with large sections missing. “Knowing this and not knowing what they must withstand, we must protect our efforts to ensure they survive, if possible, intact.
“Initially the premise sounded like it would involve many rows of like-binded books on rows of shelves in libraries everywhere, but these could easily be incinerated by heat or fire, and dissolved by floods. No,” she emphasized, “they must be stored in vaults made of sufficient material to withstand any disaster, whether natural or man-made. They cannot be easily accessed and made vulnerable to any roving hoard of barbarians superstitious enough to destroy them or cart them off as souvenirs – even venerate them, ignorant of what they really are.
“And perhaps somewhere, in some forest village on the edge of our great ruined cities will live someone with a vague familiarity of a past language who can begin the long road to rebirth. As Dr. Kárax has already said, 'to not try is already to fail' – so with that, I leave it to you.”
To a smattering of stunned applause, Dr. Brekhester stepped down, strode back to her seat near the top of the amphitheater. After a moment's silence, Dr. Kárax returned to the podium and looked around.
“At this time, I'll introduce an old friend and colleague whom I've asked to assist me in editing this entire project. Though primarily a musician, he is a legendary polymath, a true Renaissance Man, with his own wide array of scholarly contacts. To his colleagues and friends alike, he is known only as... 'The Kapellmeister'...”
* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *
Chief Inspector Sarah Bond of the London Branch of the IMP's European Division had had a rough morning of her own and wondered when the IMP could invest in more efficient ways of travel. “Like time travel, some network of wormholes that could transport you in a flash between locations – now, that would be nice.” So the Red Eye from London had to do. Given their budget cutting, she couldn't bring any of her own team. “Sorry,” her boss said, “you'll have to find some agents in New York.”
She should've taken a cab, not relied on subways and buses. It felt like it took almost as long to get from the airport to the IMP's new American Branch office in Outer Brooklyn as it took to get from London to NYC (they booked her on a flight to Newark because it was cheaper). Her meeting with Powell-Jones, the new Director of the American HQ, was pointless, since he wasn't going to be in until almost noontime despite her having made an 8am appointment which he'd approved yesterday. Then she was told by his secretary Mr. Powell-Jones had labeled the case “unsustainable” because it wasn't cost-effective, whatever that meant. He'd also questioned needing more than two agents instead of the ten she'd requested and her own boss had already approved. “If she needs back-up,” Powell-Jones suggested, “she should call on the local police.”
Capt. Ritard commiserated with her over a cup of bland coffee in the snack bar, his comments kept to a minimum. “The company bean-counters are apparently even cutting back on the number of beans you can use in a cup of coffee. Good lord, don't they realize this is no way to run a cafeteria?”
From her own experiences with Ritard in Paris back in the Good Old Days (which were only a couple decades ago), Bond knew he often spoke in allegories vague enough to mystify his superiors.
But he could offer no more consolation than assigning her two relatively inexperienced agents from the understaffed satellite office in St. Louis rather than taking ones she was already familiar with from New York. “I've heard reasonably decent things about Agent Lautenwercke, but I know nothing of Agent Hurdie. They'll meet you there. Good luck...?”
The traffic to the airport was terrible and she barely made her flight. “It'll still be faster,” she hoped, “than driving.” With no idea what to expect from these agents, paging through the file, she wasn't heartened by Ritard's final assessment: “sorry, it's the best I could do but they're not the best we have.”
What a myopic way to run a police agency. Investigating international music crimes isn't meant to be a profit-making industry, especially dealing with someone like Osiris, who's been Music's Enemy Number One for decades.
“He's up to some new form of musical terrorism, I'm sure of it. But without more than a hunch, how can I tell where this could lead? 'It's only reconnaissance.' I need more help...”
She tried calling him again last night, but Dr. Kerr still hadn't answered. “That's not like him, unless they've gone undercover...”
Ritard gave her the impression he wasn't really concerned about the break-in at Kerr's home and him not answering his phone. If he'd mentioned being on an extended vacation in Europe, what would bring him back to visit a friend in Maine? “Sounds like reason enough to leave him alone – let the locals handle it.”
“But, Jean-Baptiste,” she mumbled into her coffee, hoping the cup hadn't been bugged (Ritard was as paranoid as any conspiracy theorist), “what if someone” – someone like Osiris or SHMRG, she worried – “is after him?”
Ever since Kerr became “peripherally involved” (the best way she could word it) with the IMP's investigations into N. Ron Steele and Osiris – the one shot at Scheinwald, even if he escaped; the other nearly burned to a crisp in that fire following Tom Purdue's abduction, likewise escaping – Kerr's been on their respective watch lists. As each of these shady organizations, each other's worst enemies, were up to something new, what were the chances, she argued, either one was trying to pre-empt Kerr's involvement before they'd implement new schemes?
“All the more reason not to involve Dr. Kerr in another escapade,” Ritard mumbled back, thinking it was too bad the Thai Palace wasn't open for breakfast, “and let the man enjoy his vacation. Besides, he's close to retirement age, yes?” (something to look forward to): “why not just let him enjoy it in peace?”
Ritard and his staff apparently had a different opinion of Dr. Kerr as an asset than she did, that was clear, but she valued his insights and his ability to make connections she couldn't. Sure, he could be a bit quirky, sometimes rude, even a little accident-prone, and there's no denying he was getting older. But when he was working with Cameron, the two made a good team, their perceptions more irrational than her logically-minded agents. Kerr's age and experience with Cameron's youth and curiosity managed the right questions.
Bond knew Osiris had gone beyond his anthropomorphic suicide bots like the beta version that exploded in Philadelphia: that's old news. But the latest chatter concerning Osiris placed him somewhere in the Midwest, at one of his corporation's factories in rural Iowa. Along with that disturbing news, there was also a vague mention of “drones.”
And the right questions were things she would find immensely helpful right about now, so she was determined, despite whatever reason Ritard had for trying to slow her down, she'd give Kerr another call.
But once on the plane, Bond tried Kerr's number again, again without success. With no signal, that'll have to wait till she got to O'Hare where she had to change planes for Des Moines. Then, too frantic to catch the next flight for another attempt, she decided it now had to wait until she'd arrive.
* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *
Kárax, looking around to see where the Kapellmeister might have been sitting, couldn't find him but noticed several of the scholars seated across the back row had turned to look toward the middle entryway as his assistants, led by Mr. Sturgeon, hurried out to see what the fuss was about. “Now, where was the Kapellmeister?”
He also noticed Dr. Brekhester had gotten up with a concerned expression to follow Sturgeon out, a formidable presence as back-up: try not to think of Skuldhilde as an excellent bouncer for a library!
His inability to ignore the commotion added to the others' curiosity as the sound of a scuffle and raised voices, more prevalent in his continuing silence, produced numerous looks ranging from concern to alarm.
Kárax winced when he recognized the voice – “perhaps he's only a bit late?” – and secretly wished that voice had not come.
Victor Spoyles had been one of his closest friends at Oxford, as much as one could be outside your own college. Like small boys reveling in secret meetings, hidden places, and clandestine projects to protect the world from the forces of evil, together they had formed the nucleus of what would become the Casaubon Society.
But somewhere Victor had fallen in with the wrong crowd during the tumultuous years of the 1980s, much to Kárax's chagrin, a group of misfit philosophers called “The Glorious Brotherhood of the All-Knowing Hedgehog.” (What Greek poet had supposedly said, “the fox may know many things, but the hedgehog knows one big thing”?) Kárax sighed.
Mr. Trout examined his clipboard. “I'm sorry, but there's apparently been a misunderstanding.”
“I assume my invitation's been lost in the mail,” the familiar voice explained, “or went automatically into my Spam Folder – whichever...”
A black figure appeared out of the shadows, small in stature against the looming presence of Dr. Brekhester standing behind him. A recognizable silhouette, Kárax tried to hide his disappointment at seeing him again.
Kárax introduced him to the assembly as a co-founder of the original Casaubon Society from their Oxford days, during the late-1970s. “You had chosen to become inactive after years of barely noticeable, half-hearted involvement.”
“Well, I'm here,” he said, stepping dramatically into the light as Kárax's assistants made way. “I've decided to become active again.”
Victor Spoyles hardly looked like a scholar though he struck several of those in attendance as a philosopher from the bad part of the scholarly community, one who'd already begun to fade in popularity. He was short but not too short, and thin but not too thin, and not too old for that matter, either. He wore a black turtleneck with a matching shirt and equally tight-fitting pants, a scarlet scarf knotted artfully at his throat. Then there was his black fingernail polish, the right index fingernail brilliant red.
“We'd discussed this, Pros,” he began – “I always called him 'Pros',” he explained to some scholars sitting in front of him. (“Yes,” Kárax thought, “and several called you 'Con'.”) “Have you forgotten our meeting?”
Victor cocked his head with his trademark raised eyebrow and simpering moue that reminded Kárax he's still a spoiled rich kid.
“You told me I should be on the Editorial Committee, whatever you called it; I even sent invitations to some colleagues as you'd suggested, but I notice their names aren't on your list either.” Spoyles showed Mr. Carp a piece of paper. “It's even got your signature.” Mr. Carp held the paper up and nodded.
Kárax, careful not to give his annoyance away, certainly wanted to avoid any sense of conflict in front of the Society-at-large. He recalled no such meeting with Spoyles and never approved any such list.
Spoyles, stepping forward, scanned the room. “It seems you've invited quite a few. I, on the other hand, had only intended to invite ten, so I hope you won't refuse me my few associates? Allow me to introduce two of my assistants. We were delayed, incidentally, because the rush-hour traffic from the airport was horrendous.”
He approached the podium, reached into his black leather valise, and handed Kárax a folder without bothering to shake his hand.
“You'll find all the information about them here – which I'd sent you earlier?”
A young man, probably in his twenties, was also dressed in black, his hair clearly dyed black. He had piercing eyes. “This is Timothy Danaius, one of my students at Brasenose (had I told you I'm teaching there, now?), who, among other things, is primarily specializing in Greek History in relation to the Italian Renaissance.
“From Florence, Italy (as if there were another Florence worth mentioning), Donna Ferrante, who's quite gifted, recently joined the Bodleian research staff and speaks seven languages fluently, including Latin, Ancient Greek, Arabic and Sanskrit. Plus she teaches advanced computer programming through the library's Adult Education program, so, yes, well-versed in things both Ancient and Modern.”
She stood there, unmoving, and stared insolently at Kárax in his academic robes, wondering what the hell he was play-acting at. Also dressed in black, she was festooned with enough piercings, Kárax visibly cringed.
By now, Prospério Kárax had lost control of the proceedings as his audience faced another commotion at the Reading Room's entrance. Their attention diverted by the scene with Victor Spoyles and his assistants, Mr. Sturgeon and his fellows were unaware the Kapellmeister had opened the door, unable to completely disguise his own sense of distraction.
Kárax, initially relieved at his appearance, frowned when new concerns arose and he realized his “appearance” indicated not all was well. The Kapellmeister worked his way downward as Kárax started walking up toward him.
“My friend, beware.” Whispering in Basque, the Kapellmeister told Kárax he'd been attacked outside his room and only later came to, gagged, bound hand-and-foot, and left in a closet in some remote wine cellar.
“There are dirty feet at work,” he warned.
In the meantime, Spoyles positioned himself at the podium, and cleared his throat.
* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *
The ring-tone came out of nowhere, shattering his concentration, disrupting his deep meditation. Startled, Cameron nearly fell out of his chair. If time stood still – wasn't it supposed to? – how long was he “under”? He distinctly recalled turning his phone off, the first step whenever you'd begin, part of “clearing the mind of all distractions.” Maybe he'd forgotten to ask Terry to do the same with his phone. He blinked as the ringing continued and tried standing. There – it's coming from Terry's phone, on the bed... but where's Terry?
He was sure that was Chief Inspector Sarah Bond's ring-tone. Where would Kerr have gone he'd end up missing her call? Half-afraid he'd fumble and drop it, waking from a deep sleep – it didn't feel like it was that deep after all – he answered with slightly groggy-sounding concern. “Hello, Agent Bond? This is Cameron Pierce...”
“Oh, I was expecting Dr. Kerr. Hi, Cameron,” she continued. “I tried calling a couple times last night, couldn't leave voice-mail. I know he said you guys were on vacation – in Maine, is it?”
“Right. We'd been visiting our friend, Tom Purdue.” Maybe he shouldn't say too much. Curious, he started looking around for Terry.
He tried to explain the technical issues with Terry's phone without being specific or mentioning the possibility it must've been hacked. “May I call you back in a few minutes from my” – (encrypted) – “phone?”
They completed the intricate dance of transferring numbers to get past their phone's security systems, and he called back five minutes later, once he'd made a quick round hoping Terry would somehow turn up. He'd called out to Kerr but got no response – not in the bathroom – and Cameron felt silly looking under the bed. A quick peek out the door revealed nothing. Was he outside #12, ear to the door if Cameron got inside? No. Maybe, if he was desperate, he'd gone down to the diner: apparently not. The thought Kerr would've left and not taken his phone nagged at him as he explained to Bond what had happened, how someone in New York apparently hacked in and took his phone off-line.
“Where are you now,” Bond asked. “You sound so clear, it's like you're in the next room,” laughing at the cliché.
The room was still empty. Still mystified about Kerr's whereabouts, he told her they were stuck someplace in the Middle-of-Nowhere, Iowa.
“Really...?” Bond sounded genuinely surprised. “Oh, right, that's why this place sounded familiar to me, where Purdue had that incident years ago with some composer who disappeared, a Mozart Wannabe? Right, called himself Trazmo...?”
“Right.” Now it was Cameron's turn to sound surprised. “What do you mean, 'this place,' Inspector? Where are you calling from?”
“Reports came in of a possible sighting of Osiris in Orient, Iowa, so...”
Without getting into various IMP budget-cutting issues, exhausted from flying business class from London overnight, or her exasperating meeting with Ritard, she explained she'd gotten some IMP agents and came over for some reconnaissance. “I'm out in the middle of a field on the far end of town, not far from some seedy-looking motel. You?”
The small world of the matter impressed both of them: who'd have thought? “We're in that seedy-looking motel, the so-called 'Express'.”
“Do you or Dr. Kerr know anything about that old factory out here? Curiously, it's owned by Osiris' company, Basilikon Industries. And how did you end up in Orient at just this precise moment?”
Cameron went through the facts: how the local sheriff found a body that could've been Trazmo but turned out it wasn't.
“Right. Well...” There was an awkward pause. “They've found another one: Graham Ripa's.”
= = = = = = =
©2022 by Dick Strawser for Thoughts on a Train
No comments:
Post a Comment