I was looking forward to my night of entertainment, and if that sounds peculiar, then I should explain how this was so. Once people got over their obsession with mechanical calculators and developed a better and more efficient way of doing things, such abilities were built in through a few small implants and by rerouting parts of the brain that otherwise were underemployed in daily life. Many experiments were done to establish the best sites for this; some people had the enhancements attached to the sectors of the brain which controlled physical exercise, for example, so that to perform work they would have to go on long walks to generate the required stimulation. Others, rather more peculiarly, had it attached to their sense of humour, and would be heard wandering around giggling insanely as they did complex calculations.
In my case my natural ability was so great that it could not be attached to such a limited area. Instead, I opted to have my skills powered by the zones of my brain which responded to pleasure. Later a further development had also built in maternal longing, on the grounds that it is the most powerful force in the human psyche. Without going into the more lurid details, I am sure you can see the possibilities of the first. When I was still in France, grappling with a particularly complex problem, I found that the best solution was to set up the calculation, then go to a local restaurant (the Dôme in Montparnasse was very productive) and smile in a particular fashion at one of the young single men who used to frequent the place. Not only did I get my work done, I also often got a free meal into the bargain.
I did not use the additional enhancements very often; the emotional aftershocks of doing so were too great. Instead I kept a distance from that side of my personality and did not dwell on the fact that I had a child. So what? That was my normal response when I thought of the subject. More than two decades of living in a world where emotions were permitted changed that somewhat; my response to Rosie had been far more emotional and affectionate than her existence warranted. I felt protective towards her, the first time I had ever felt such an emotion. To my surprise, it was quite pleasant.
Now I needed to unleash that unused part of my abilities fully if I was going to have any chance whatsoever of understanding the complications that now bedevilled me. I prepared myself thoroughly, summoning all the information I had stored away on my daughter to see what I was dealing with. Then I added her to the calculations as well.
One of the things I found myself thinking about was Wind’s panic. It drove home the point that the humble coincidence could be a powerful factor in the evolution of events. If Chang hadn’t turned up just at that moment...
Which brought me back to my worry. Why had he turned up just then? Why at that precise moment? Why not the day before or after, for example? Was it just random, or was there an underlying pattern I couldn’t yet see? Shakespeare, you understand, as interpreted by Henry Lytten. The greater the coincidence, the greater the importance of the hidden causation.
My concern was that I had been around now for many years, and in all probability would be around for another seventy or so. And Chang shows up just as my tests were running out of control. Clearly there was absolutely no way that he, or anyone else, could have known about this. So my fundamental query was: did the fact that the test was out of control cause him to turn up? Or did his turning up in some way send the test out of control? Did his arrival cause Rosalind to visit Henry’s cellar and put Anterwold on steroids? Or the other way round? Or was there some other factor I knew nothing of? Was it simply a coincidence that today was the first time I heard of Henry’s ancestor, and saw his portrait, and was reminded of the girl he had brought into existence? I felt that if I could figure that one out, I could figure out everything else as well.
I needed to work on my machine, and I needed help. There was only one person who could provide that, so, with some trepidation, I went to Rosie’s house and knocked on the door. I suspected she would be confined to her room in disgrace, or something like that. Certainly the sour look on her mother’s face when I’d glimpsed her as I dropped Rosie off the previous day did not make me expect that all would be joyful in the Wilson household. On the other hand, it did explain why the girl found Anterwold so appealing.
41
Antros was on the verge of finally killing the deer that he had been patiently tracking for more than an hour. It had stopped to drink at a narrow stream and he had a clear shot at it. Only fifty feet or so, an easy target that he could not possibly miss. The arrow was in place, and slowly he pulled back on the string until he could feel the feather against his ear. Very carefully, he took aim, held his breath — and watched helplessly as the deer started, ducked, swerved and disappeared into the bushes, disturbed by the blood-curdling scream that echoed through the forest.
He cursed and cursed again. The despair and terror in that scream frightened him as much as it had the deer. More, perhaps, as he knew that it was a human voice that had produced it. He jumped to his feet — his knee aching from resting on the ground for such a long time — and listened again. Swiftly but carefully, he ran lightly toward the noise. He kept his bow close, the arrow still in place. He might very well need it.
There was nothing dangerous that he could see. In the middle of the scrub there was a figure, a slight boy sitting on the ground, hunched over. Injured? It didn’t seem so, but the sound of sobbing suggested he was in some distress.
Antros did not hurry. He had lived in the forest long enough to be cautious. The boy wasn’t dying. Antros lowered himself behind a bush and watched. There seemed to be no trap, no one else nearby. There was the Copse, but no one would dare hide in that. There were no untoward sounds, no movements that made him alert.
He stood up and skirted round so that he could approach the boy from behind; he didn’t seem dangerous but men died in the forest from not being careful. When he got within a few feet he pulled on the bowstring once more, so that the arrow was pointing straight at the boy’s back, and spoke.
‘Who are you?’
Slowly the boy lifted his head, and Antros could see the pallor of his face, the tears running down his cheeks. He relaxed and loosened the string of his bow.
‘What’s the matter with you, young fellow?’ he asked. ‘Seen a ghost?’
The boy looked at him for a long time, lips trembling.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked more gently. ‘Don’t be afraid.’
‘My name is... My name is Ganimed.’
‘Why are you so frightened? Are you lost? Where are your parents, your people?’
‘I don’t know. I’m alone here. I went into those trees and... and...’
‘You went into the Copse? Why? What for? Don’t you know what is in there?’
‘No. But it’s horrible. Horrible.’