'Well thanks, Miss Hussey. Thanks a lot.' Sam smiled politely, wondering if it was actually possible to read anything from the library: from the way Helen had described it, it sounded like just another way of watching television. After leaving prison he had vowed he would never watch television again.
He watched her get into her car and then went back up to the atrium floor where the piano was playing an Impromptu by Schubert in the style of Murray Perahia. Although he liked the music, Gleig was always a little unnerved by the sight of the keys playing as if an invisible person was sitting on the piano stool. More so now that Hideki Yojo was dead. It still shook him when he remembered those blackened eyes. Epilepsy. What a way to go.
Death was a subject often on Gleig's mind. He knew it was the solitude of the job that was responsible. Sometimes, touring the building at night, it was like being inside some huge mausoleum. Preoccupied with death and dying, and with so much time on his hands he had become something of a hypochondriac. But what worried him more than the idea that he too might suffer an epileptic fit was the awareness that he knew nothing at all about it or what warning signs to watch out for. As soon as he had the opportunity Sam accessed the encyclopedia in the electronic library.
After selecting the appropriate category with his mouse there was a momentary pause and then an Aaron Copland fanfare of trumpets that caused his heart to leap in his chest.
'Welcome to the encyclopedia,' announced the computer.
'Damn,' he exclaimed nervously, 'don't do that. Machine, you scared the shit out of me.'
'The information resource that covers all fields of human learning and history in all times and places. Quite simply, you have before you the most complete information archive anywhere on earth. Entry titles are alphabetized according to the English language A-Z.'
'No kidding,' grunted Gleig.
'All diacritcal marks and foreign letters without parallels in English are ignored in this alphabetization.'
Gleig shrugged to himself, unsure if his previous remark had been critical or not.
'Titles beginning with numbers, such as 1984, the novel by George Orwell, are alphabetized as if the numbers were written out Nineteen Eighty-Four. When you have decided upon the entry that you require you may take up any cross-references, or you may browse among countless subjects that are grouped around the original entry point. Now type your chosen subject please.'
Gleig thought for a moment and then typed uncertainly:
IPPYLEPPSY
'The subject you require does not exist. It may be that you have misspelled it. Try again.'
IPPILEPPSY
'No. That's no good either. Okay, here's my suggestion. If you are searching for information on a disease of the nervous system characterized by paroxysms, in which the patient falls to the ground unconscious, with general spasm of the muscles and sometimes foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog, aka "the falling sickness", then the word you require will now appear on screen in its correct spelling. If this is the subject you require then indicate your choice by typing YES.'
EPILEPSY?
YES
Almost instantaneously Gleig was watching a film of a man lying on the ground jerking uncontrollably and frothing at the mouth.
'Heavenly Father,' he breathed. 'Lord above. Will you look at that poor sonofabitch?'
'It has been estimated that 6–7 per cent of the population suffer at least one epileptic seizure at some time in their lives, and that 4 per cent have a phase when they are prone to recurrent seizures.'
'Is that a fact?'
The picture changed to the marble head of a bald and bearded man.
'The definition of the condition is generally attributed to Hippocrates.'
'Is he the guy who committed suicide?'
The computer ignored the interruption.
'Epilepsy is not a specific disease but rather a complex of symptoms that results from any number of conditions that excessively excite nerve cells of the brain.'
'You mean, like Miss Hussey?' Sam Gleig chuckled obscenely. 'Man, she sure as hell excites my tired old brain.'
The picture of Hippocrates gave way to several other pictures: one of the brain, an electroencephalogram, the German psychiatrist Hans Berger, and the father of British neurology, Hughlings Jackson. But it was the computer's explanation of the types of seizure and in particular focal seizures and their causes that really interested Sam Gleig.
'A focal sensory seizure may sometimes be caused by a stroboscopic light and for this reason those people who suffer from photosensitive epilepsy are often advised to avoid nightclubs and computers.'
'God damn,' breathed Gleig as he recollected the burn he had sustained on the back of his hand from the fancy-looking desk lamp on Hideki Yojo's desk.
'Of course. It wasn't the computer screen at all. God damn. It was the desk light. It was red hot.'
He looked instinctively at the back of his hand. The burn, about the size of a quarter, was still there. Remembering some of the nightclubs he had been to as a younger man and the nauseous effect that the flashing lights had sometimes produced in him, Gleig was suddenly sure that he could now offer a slightly different explanation for what had caused Hideki Yojo's death.
'What else could it have been?'
He reached for the telephone, thinking that he had to call someone and tell them what he suspected. But who? The cops? The ex-con in him recoiled from any further contact with LAPD. Helen Hussey? How would she feel about him calling her at home? Warren Aikman? Maybe he was still working upstairs. Except that Sam liked talking to the clerk of works about as much as he liked talking to the LAPD. Aikman had a habit of making him feel small and unimportant. Maybe it could wait until the morning after all, when he could tell Helen Hussey in person. Besides, it would give him an excuse to speak to her. So he stayed where he was, browsing through EPILOBRIUM, EPISCOPACY, EPISTEMOLOGY,
ERASMUS, ERNST, EROS and ESAU.
Allen Grabel found himself on the fourth floor of the Gridiron, near the computer room. As plans went his was not a particularly sophisticated one, but he did not doubt it would be effective. To screw Richardson he would screw his building. And the best way to do that was to screw the computer. Just walk in there with a heavy object and do 40 million dollars' worth of damage. Short of killing Richardson he could think of no more effective way of getting back at him. He had wanted to do it earlier, only something had stopped him. Now he was actually on his way. He had a flat sheet of steel in his hands, about the size of a roof tile, something the builders had left behind in the basement. It was not very easy to carry but, having resolved to do some damage, he had discovered a lack of blunt instruments about the building. This was all he had been able to find. And the corners looked sufficiently unyielding to smash a few screens and maybe puncture the computer housings themselves. He was approaching the little glass bridge when he heard the Disklavier piano starting to play. It was a piece of music he recognized by Oliver Messiaen. And it heralded someone crossing the atrium floor.
Sam Gleig exited the multimedia program just after one o'clock and, regular as clockwork, picked up his Maglite to begin his foot patrol of the Gridiron.
Helen Hussey was right, of course. There was absolutely no need for it. He could have kept an eye on things just as well from the comfort of his office. Better. With all the computer's CCTV cameras and sensors, he was all seeing, all sensing. Everywhere at once. It was like being God. Except that God wouldn't have needed the exercise. God didn't have to worry about his heart, or his waistline. God would have taken the elevator. Sam Gleig took the stairs.