I said, “What does that mean for your TOE? If Wu is correct?”
Mosala smiled. “Maybe that strengthens my position.”
“Why? I don’t understand.”
She glanced at her notepad. “It’s a complicated issue. Maybe we could go into it tomorrow?”
Wednesday afternoon: our first interview session.
“Of course.”
We began to walk out together. Mosala clearly had another appointment; it was now or never. I said, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. I don’t know if it’s important, but…”
She seemed distracted, but she said, “Go on.”
“When I arrived, I was met at the airport by someone called Akili Kuwale.” She didn’t react to the name, so I continued. “Ve said ve was a ‘mainstream Anthrocosmologist,’ and—”
Mosala groaned softly, closed her eyes, and stopped dead. Then she turned on me. “Let me make this absolutely clear. If you so much as mention the Anthrocosmologists in this documentary, I’ll—”
I broke in hurriedly, “I have no intention of doing that.”
She stared at me angrily, disbelieving.
I added, “Do you think they’d let me, even if I wanted to?”
She wasn’t mollified. “I never know what they might do. What did this person want from you, if it wasn’t coverage for their lunatic views?”
I said carefully, “Ve seemed to feel you might be in some kind of danger.” I contemplated raising the question of emigration to Stateless, but Mosala was already so close to flashpoint that I didn’t think it was worth the risk.
She said acidly, “Well, that’s the Anthrocosmologists for you, and their concern is very touching, but I'm not in any danger, am I?” She gestured at the empty auditorium, as if to point out the absence of lurking assassins. “So they can relax, and you can forget about them, and we can both get on with our jobs. Right?”
I nodded dumbly. She started to walk away; I caught up with her. I said, “Look, I didn’t seek these people out. I was approached straight off the plane by this mysterious person making cryptic remarks about your safety. I thought you had a right to hear about it; it’s as simple as that. I didn’t know ve was a member of your least favorite cult. And if the whole subjects taboo… fine. I’ll never speak their name in your presence again.”
Mosala stopped, her expression softening. She said, “I apologize. I didn’t mean to chew your head off. But if you knew the kind of pernicious nonsense—” She broke off. “Never mind. You say the subjects closed? You have no interest in them?” She smiled sweetly. “Then there’s nothing to argue about, is there?” She walked to the doorway, then turned and called back, “So—I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon? We can finally have a talk about some things that matter. I'm looking forward to that."
I watched her walk away, then I retreated back into the empty room and sat down in a front-row seat, wondering how I’d ever talked myself into believing that I could “explain” Violet Mosala to the world. I hadn’t even known what my own lover was thinking, living with her week after week, so what kind of ludicrous misjudgments would I make with this highly strung, mercurial stranger… whose life revolved around mathematics I could barely comprehend?
My notepad beeped urgently. I took it from my pocket; Hermes had deduced that the lecture was over, and audible signaling was now acceptable. There was a message for me from Indrani Lee:
"Andrew, you may not fully appreciate what kind of coup this is, but a representative of the people we discussed last night has agreed to speak with you. Off the record, of course. 27 Chomsky Avenue. Nine o'clock tonight."
I clutched my stomach, and tried not to laugh.
I said, “I'm not going. I'm not risking it. What if Mosala finds out? Of course I'm curious—but it’s just not worth it.”
After a few seconds, Hermes asked, “Is that a reply to the sender?”
I shook my head. “No. And it’s not even the truth, either.”
The address Lee had given me was a short walk from the north-east tram line, through what looked—almost—like a patch of middle-class suburbia back home… except that there was no vegetation, ostentatious or otherwise, just relatively large paved courtyards and occasional kitsch statuary. No obviously electrified fences, either. The air was chilly; autumn was making itself felt here, after all. The dazzling coral of Stateless gave the wrong impression entirely; the natural cousins of its engineered polyps would not have thrived, this far from the tropics.
I thought: Sarah Knight had been in touch with the Anthrocosmologists, and Mosala had never got to hear of it. She would hardly have spoken about Sarah in such glowing terms, if she’d known there’d been some kind of deal between her and Kuwale. That was pure supposition, but it made sense: research for Holding Up the Sky must have led Sarah to the ACs, who were at least part of the reason why she’d worked so hard to get the contract for Violet Mosala. And maybe the Anthrocosmologists had now decided to offer the same deal to me. Help us keep watch over Violet Mosala, and we’ll give you a world exclusive: the first media coverage of the planet’s most secretive cult.
Why did they feel it was their duty to guard Mosala, though? What role did TOE specialists play in the Anthrocosmologists’ scheme of things? Revered gurus? Unworldly holy fools who needed to be protected from their enemies by a secret cadre of devoted followers? Sanctifying physicists would make a change from sanctifying ignorance—but I could imagine Mosala finding it even more galling to be told that she was some kind of precious (but ultimately, naive and helpless) conduit for mystical insights, than to be told she was in need of being humbled, or healed.
Number 27 was a single-storey house of silver-gray granite-like reef-rock. It was large, but no mansion; four or five bedrooms, maybe. It made sense for the reclusive ACs to lease themselves something out in the suburbs; it was certainly more discreet than booking themselves rooms in a hotel swarming with journalists. Warm yellow light showed through windows set to opalescent, a deliberately welcoming configuration. I walked through the unlocked gate, crossed the empty courtyard, steeled myself, and rang the bell. If Mystical Renaissance could don clown costumes and talk about “imagination-driven self-narratives” out on the street for all the world to see, I wasn’t sure I was ready for a cult whose practices had to take place behind closed doors.
My notepad emitted a brief, soft squeal, like a children’s toy impaled on a knife. I took it from my pocket; the screen was blank—the first time ever I’d seen it that way. The door opened, and an elegantly dressed woman smiled at me and extended a hand, saying, “You must be Andrew Worth. I'm Amanda Conroy.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
Still clutching my notepad, I shook her hand. She glanced at the dead machine. “It won’t be damaged—but you understand, this is off the record.” She had a West Coast US accent, and unashamedly unnatural milk-white skin, smooth as polished marble. She might have been any age from thirty to sixty.
I followed her into the house, down a plushly carpeted hallway, and into the living room. There were half a dozen wall-hangings: large, abstract and colorful. They looked to me like Brazilian Mock Primitive—the work of a school of fashionable Irish artists—but I had no way of knowing whether or not they were the “genuine” article: self-consciously exploitative “remixes” of twenties Saõ Paulo ghetto art, currently valued at a hundred thousand times the price of the real thing from Brazil. The four-meter wall-screen certainly wasn’t cheap, though, and nor was the hidden device which had turned my notepad into a brick. I didn’t even contemplate trying to invoke Witness; I was just glad I’d transmitted the morning’s footage to my editing console at home, before leaving the hotel.