«And have you noticed how each and every one of those alien dimensions seemed like a curiously distorted reflection of some era of our own known history? Celtic Britain. Ancient Rome. Feudal Japan. By God Leighton, where is this machine sending him? Backward in time? To some planet in another star system? To a parallel timetrack where society has evolved in a slightly different way? To a future so distant England has been completely forgotten? Where, Leighton, where?»
«I don't know,» Leighton repeated hopelessly.
J gestured in the direction of the room where KALI stood, waiting. «Could it be that Richard never leaves that room?»
«What?» Leighton looked up, startled.
«Could it be that those X dimensions are actually fantastically complex simulations existing within the computer? Could it be that all of Richard's adventures are built up out of bits and pieces of his own subconscious and given an illusion of reality by the computer?»
«It can't be merely an illusion,» Leighton objected. «Richard's body vanishes while he's gone.»
«Hundreds of people vanish every year, and even MI6 can't track them down, except for those who surface a few months later in Moscow with a briefcase full of top secret blueprints. The strange thing is not that he vanishes, but that he reappears.»
«If he reappears, the X dimensions must be real!» Leighton spoke with the air of a man grasping at straws.
«Unless Richard Blade is disintegrated into his component atoms and stored as bits of information in KALI's memory banks, then reconstituted with appropriate wounds and souvenirs after a suitable period of time, complete with implanted false memories of adventures that never happened. Can KALI do that?»
Stricken, Lord Leighton could only repeat, «I don't know.»
J began pacing again. «One thing we can be thankful for. If the Ngaa follows the same pattern this time as it did when it came through the computer with Dexter, we can expect the power of the creatures to gradually dwindle.»
«I wouldn't count on that,» Leighton said bleakly.
«Why not?»
«This time, when KALI turned itself on, something came through it.»
«What do you mean, 'something'?»
«I didn't see it, though I was in the room at the time, but it was recorded on our instruments. I can show you the graphs if… «
«Never mind the graphs, Leighton. Tell me, in plain words. What was it?»
In the blue-white fluorescent light Leighton's face was that of a dead man. «It was pure energy, J, the equivalent of hundreds of thousands of volts of electricity.»
On stepping out of the elevator, J was met by Dr. Ferguson. Ferguson wore an even more flamboyantly floral Hawaiian sport shirt than before, but there was nothing flamboyant about the fat man's bloodshot, haunted eyes.
«How is Mrs. Smythe-Evans?» J asked.
«She's taking it well,» the psychiatrist answered. «The woman's got courage. I offered her something to get her over the rough spots, but she turned me down.»
«May I visit her?»
«I don't see why not. She's lying down, but I don't think she's asleep. At least she wasn't when I looked in on her a half-hour ago. Room Eight, that way.» He indicated the direction with a weary gesture.
As J started down the hall, Ferguson fell in step beside him, saying, «The poltergeist nonsense has started again, you know, worse than ever. I thought it would die down if we waited long enough, but… «He shrugged.
«What happened?»
«Something picked up the filing cabinet in my office and threw it through the wall out into the passage. And did Leighton tell you things have been smashing themselves upstairs too, near KALI?»
«No, he kept quiet about that. He thinks that if I know how serious things have gotten, I'll take his wonderful electric toy away from him.»
«A capital idea, I'd say! I hope you do exactly that.»
«I don't plan to.»
«Why not, in God's name?»
«I want to try something else, first.»
«Do something, J! Anything! I'm supposed to be the great healer around here, but I'm about ready for a trip to Scotland myself.»
They halted outside Room Eight.
J said, «Unless I'm greatly mistaken, you'll have peace in this place tomorrow morning.»
Staring at J with unconcealed disbelief, the doctor opened the door. «A visitor, Mrs. Smythe-Evans,» he called with a false cheerfulness.
«Bring him in.» Her voice sounded tired.
In the doorway J said, «I hope I'm not intruding. If you'd like to rest… «
«I can't sleep. I might as well talk.» She was lying in bed, propped up on a pillow, wearing a white hospital gown.
J pulled up the room's one chair and sat down by her bedside.
«I have things to do,» Ferguson said apologetically. «If you need me, there's a button… «He backed out, bowing slightly, and closed the door.
When he was gone, Zoe said, «I don't like that man. He thinks all you have to do is take a pill and everything will be all right.»
«A common superstition of his profession,» J replied smoothly.
«Tell me about the fire. Were there many casualties?»
«Twenty-seven dead, by the latest count. I don't remember how many were hurt.»
«Twenty-seven dead.» She lay back and closed her eyes.
«I think I must be a very selfish woman. That number doesn't seem to mean anything to me.»
«No more selfish than the rest of us, Mrs. Smythe-Evans, though perhaps a bit more honest.»
«I don't think about all those poor people who got burned up. I don't even think very much about my husband, though he was a good man. I know to some he was a clown, a figure of fun, but he was kind most of the time, and trustworthy and reliable. Reliability is a vastly underrated virtue, I've come to believe. It's like a good English suit; a man can wear it for a long time and it still looks well on him. Yet, though I've honestly tried, I can't seem to burst into hysterical tears over Reginald. Is there something wrong with me?»
«No.»
«I'm going to shock you yet. My children. Mrs. Kelly. Are they among the twenty-seven?»
J hesitated, then nodded. «Yes, Mrs. Smythe-Evans.»
«You're sure?»
«They were… rather badly burned, but my men were able to identify them… by their teeth. Your family dentist came down from Norwich with their X-rays. He was very helpful.» J was choosing his words with care.
«You see how selfish I am? I don't even think about them, poor lads.» Her voice began to quaver and she paused before going on. «Except for Dickie. Dickie wasn't like the others.»
J thought she was indeed going to burst into tears, but she gave herself a little shake and opened her eyes. «You see? Selfish to the core! Reginald often accused me of that, of thinking only of myself, of loving only myself. It's a pity he can't be here to enjoy being right again, as he usually was.»
J said gently, «To be, as you put it, selfish may be an advantage in a situation like this. You can look at things calmly, plan for the future.»
«Future? What future?» she demanded. «I have no future.»
«It may not appear so, but… «
«I haven't worked at a regular job since my marriage. I have, unfortunately, been a completely faithful wife and mother, and so haven't got a lover waiting in the wings to spirit me away to a new and better life. Oh, I'm sure I won't starve. There will still be plenty of money in the Smythe-Evans coffers, even after inheritance taxes. But a future? That's too grand a word to describe the years I'll be spending in that ugly house in Norwich, listening to echoes and washing dishes for myself, discreetly and with dignity turning into a hag.»
«Surely it's not as bad as all that.»
«No?» She sat upright and glared at him. «Can you think of anyone on God's green earth who would offer decent employment to a woman of my age and inexperience?»
«Yes I can.»
«Who?» Her tone was almost contemptuous.