It turned out to be a nurse – the figure in white from his drugged haze. She wore a starched white uniform in the demure style of the times and had a scrubbed, no-nonsense face. She carried a tray containing scrambled eggs, toast, and tea.
"So we're up and around, are we?"
Carlisle nodded. "So it would seem."
She put the tray down on the bed.
"You're probably feeling a little queasy, so eat this. It'll help." She straightened up again. "I know you must have a hundred questions, but I'm not authorized to answer any of them. You're going to have to wait until someone more important comes to see you."
"There is maybe one thing."
"What's that?" She looked a little impatient. She clearly had not been hired for her bedside manner.
"It's kind of boring sitting here. Could I get a newspaper or magazine or something?"
The nurse looked at him coldly. "Perhaps you'd like a TV brought in?"
"I just asked."
She relented a little. "I'll see what I can do."
"Also…"
"What?"
"Where do I go to the bathroom?"
"Look under the bed."
The magazine or newspaper did not appear, and Carlisle spent a long time looking out of the window. A pigeon had attempted to land on the windowsill, but flew off in a panic when it saw him. Eventually there were more footsteps beyond the door and another sequence of beeps. He turned, expecting to see the nurse – carrying, he hoped, a copy of People or Timeweek - and instead saw something in the doorway that made him wonder if he was having a drug flashback.
"What the hell?"
Matthew Dreisler smiled like the Devil himself. "Surprised to see me?"
"You're not quite what I expected."
"Didn't you know that I'm everywhere?"
Carlisle scowled. Obviously the game was continuing. "All hearing and all seeing?"
"You're getting the idea."
"I suppose you run the Lefthand Path, too?"
"In a manner of speaking, I do."
Carlisle slowly nodded. "Oookay."
Dreisler stood smiling. Carlisle sat on the bed feeling like a very helpless rat in a very complex maze. He could easily believe that Dreisler was behind everything that had happened to him. It was some twisted behavioral experiment that was pushing him through each horrible stage of some monstrous Kafkaesque nightmare.
"I expect you'd like to know what's going on."
The words were said with such bright lack of concern that Carlisle suddenly wanted to start screaming. Okay, I give up. You've driven me mad. Unfortunately, they had not. He could still keep himself under control. With an effort, he formed his face into an expression of caution.
"Are you going to tell me?"
"That's exactly why I'm here."
The story was nothing short of incredible. Harry Carlisle had heard some incredible stories in his time, but this one was head and shoulders above the rest.
"I'm organizing a little revolution."
"You are? When?"
Dreisler walked slowly over to the window. He was using the large empty space almost as a set, going for the full dramatic effect. He was the debonair secret policeman, master of intrigue, Carlisle was the bleary political prisoner. The bare, dusty room was their enclosed universe, an area of nothing after the claustrophobic horror of the Magicians and their factory.
"If everything goes according to plan, it will come to fruition on Larry Faithful's Day of National Reconciliation."
"That's only slightly over two weeks away."
"Less actually. You've been out for five days."
That was another shock. "I have?"
"We thought it was best."
Dreisler turned and looked out of the window. Carlisle sat on the bed in his hospital smock, head bowed, watching him. What did Dreisler think he was? Every part of his image was so carefully contrived, the fashion-plate clothes, the fop's gestures and bantering manner, the black glasses, the overlong blond hair, and the leather coat over the shoulders. He was like a twentieth-century movie star. No, that was not quite right – he was more like one of the old grand-manner rock stars. Like them, he seemed to live by illusions – and the bulk of his illusions came from the darkside.
"Aren't you biting off rather a mouthful, running your own revolution?"
"It's a dirty job, but somebody has to do it."
"Are you serious about this?"
Dreisler turned and faced Carlisle. "I'm deadly serious, Harry."
It only took one look at his face to convince Harry Carlisle that Dreisler meant every word he was saying.
"In actual fact, the preparations have been going on for some time. This isn't some half-assed uprising, Harry. This is the real thing, the full-scale overthrow of the theocracy." Dreisler made a scything gesture with a flattened hand. "The theocracy is not functioning, and it has to go. I like power, Harry, and power can become very limited in a bankrupt and backward country."
"Just like that?"
"The times they are a-changin'."
"You're very optimistic."
"I've done my work very well."
"What are these preparations?"
"Mainly computer viruses."
"Viruses?"
"When, as under this administration, you have your computers confused with the Almighty, you tend to become very dependent on them. You also believe everything that they tell you. Why not? The theocrat treats his computer monitor like God's own porthole." Dreisler was warming to his subject. "Over the last six months, I've had various shaped viruses loaded into the computers of all branches of the administration. Some were getgo active and have been doing deep data corruption; others are dormant, waiting for either a binary or a situational trigger. There are already whole sections of the deacons operating according to total fantasy data."
Carlisle did not think that Dreisler was insane, but he still did not know what to think of the man. He was not too sure about himself, either. Despite all his doubts, Harry Carlisle was being drawn into Dreisler's mad tale of conspiracy.
"You designed these viruses?"
Dreisler laughed and shook his head. "No, of course not. I never do anything that specific. I'm a Renaissance man."
"Machiavelli?"
"Exactly. I'm a master of the overview."
"So who wrote the viruses?"
"Most came from the Canadians; some were Japanese."
In a sentence, the conspiracy fantasy had become high treason.
"You're dealing with the Canadians?"
"Of course I'm dealing with the Canadians. We can't off the Fundamentalists without Canadian help."
"Do you know what you're doing?"
"My dear boy, on the Day of National Reconciliation, Canadian troops will cross the border at a dozen different points, immediately after I've arrested Larry Faithful."
"You've sold us out to the canuks?"
Harry had no more doubts that Dreisler was telling him the absolute truth. The most powerful deacon on the Eastern Seaboard was plotting a coup with the help of the Canadian government. The real question was why he felt the need to tell all to a mere police lieutenant. Carlisle was not sure he wanted to know the answer.
"Omelets and eggs, Harry. It can't be done without them. It's really too late for a display of irrational patriotism."
Carlisle shook his head. "I don't know about any of this. How can you be talking to the Canadians?"
"I've also been talking to the Mexicans and the British. Don't underestimate me. Policing the deacons and also what's left of the FBI/CIA has given me the chance to build what may be the biggest personal intelligence network in the world. You have to remember that I've got agents out in the field who don't have a clue who they're really working for. Once you reach that level, it's possible to talk to anyone about anything."