But Tristan played the winning card re: Frank’s mental constitution: he said that ultimately it should not matter if we believed about the magic or not, we should sign on to this for the sake of the science itself. That is like offering catnip to a cat. Of course Frank said he would assist however he could.
They’d explained why magic is no longer possible today, and further, why, even were magic to become possible (within the ODEC), it would require the application of specific people (“witches”) who could “perform magic.” So naturally, I asked them who they were expecting to “perform” it. It was the only time I saw them at a loss: this most obvious and basic of concerns had never crossed their minds.
I don’t know who they are, or where their funding comes from—it definitely isn’t MIT this time. God forbid MIT even suspect he’s tinkering with this nonsense.
Diachronicle
DAY 221 (CONTD.; EARLY MARCH, YEAR 1)
In which we divide to conquer
REBECCA EAST-ODA SERVED TEA LIKE a proper New England matriarch—not mugs with teabags, but loose-leaf tea steeped in and poured from a china teapot into teacups resting on saucers, with rock sugar on sticks and a little porcelain pitcher of milk, all set out on a wicker tray. She also presented a plate of biscuits both ginger and savory, which of course at the time I’d have called cookies and crackers. I spirited these to my side of the tea table so that Tristan would not swallow them whole.
For early March in New England, it was uncharacteristically gorgeous, and crisp afternoon sunlight streamed at a low angle through the bay transom windows, hitting the dangling crystals of the fancy old chandelier that hung incongruously above us all, throwing dozens of little rainbows around the walls.
“So we have this space. Not far away from here actually,” Tristan was saying, and on reflex glanced around for sweets.
“Have some more tea,” Rebecca offered Tristan, who of course had downed his almost instantly. She held out her hand for his teacup and saucer.
He gave it to her with a nod of thanks, but then his attention returned to Frank Oda, talking amps and circuitry requirements—
“How does he take it?” Rebecca asked me.
How odd that she assumed I’d know this. “Based on his dietary habits, probably milk and sugar,” I said.
“All right then,” said Tristan, staring fixedly at a blank place on the wall. “The human-rated ODEC has to be built . . . this becomes a four-part strategy.” (I had not realized he’d fashioned even a three-part strategy.) He held up a fist and stuck out his thumb: “One, extensive modifications to our building.”
“Hang on,” I said, “it’s not DODO’s building!”
“What is DODO?” Rebecca asked.
“Department of Diabolical Obscurantism,” I guessed.
Tristan was still frozen in midsentence, like a video when you hit the “pause” button, thumb in the air, gazing at me patiently while he chewed a biscuit he had somehow snagged from my side of the table. “Anyway,” I continued, “you can’t just modify someone else’s building . . . can you?”
“We will acquire the building,” he announced. Then he extended his index finger. “Two, design of the human-rated ODEC. Three, its construction. Four, find somebody who can do magic.” He looked around at us. “Conveniently, there’s four of us. Professor, you work up a design, then oversee the construction. My bosses can fly up some fellows from DC to work with us, Stokes and I will help—you can manage a screw gun, can’t you, Stokes?” This was a throwaway, almost rhetorical, question; he did not even glance at me.
Oda nodded, his face still but radiant. I could see him restraining himself from glancing at his wife. Her face was also still, but not so radiant. “We’ll need people with expertise in bulk cryogenics.”
“NASA,” Tristan said dismissively. “Those guys don’t have enough to do. Then there’s procuring and installing all the hardware. We can get as much computational muscle as we need from cheap off-the-shelf hardware. Weird fabrication can be sourced from Los Alamos. Witches is you, Stokes. Ask around at New Agey places. Yoga studios or whatever. That should be easy enough, and you look the part.”
“What does that mean?” I demanded.
“Grad student. Primary demographic for magical thinking.”
“Tristan. It’s the twenty-first century. Get a clue. I will look for witches online.”
He was already shaking his head. “No. You can’t leave a paper or electronic trail. You have to show up somewhere witchy in person and ask questions, without giving them any information about yourself.” Before I could respond he turned to Rebecca. “Wanna help Stokes find a witch?”
Rebecca said, “No.” She said it politely, calmly stroking a calico cat that was curled placidly on her lap. It was clear that she would not be changing her mind about it.
“You’re the one who gets credit for thinking of it,” he said, almost (by Tristan standards) cajoling.
“I am here for Frank,” she said. “I’m not a soldier in your army, Mr. Lyons.”
“All right then,” Tristan said, after a pause. He suddenly brightened, grinned at me. “Stokes, you own witches.”
“What the hell, Tristan. How does one find a witch, anyhow? Not in a yoga studio, that’s for sure. Nobody’s been able to do magic for about a hundred and seventy-five years, so what does that even mean, for somebody to ‘be a witch’?”
“In Japan, still today, there are tsukimono-suji,” said Oda, as casually as if he were discussing lunch. “Witch families. Witchcraft is considered hereditary—matrilineal—and I don’t know what kind of magic they claim to do, but the witch identity remains.” He grinned slightly. “Maybe if you find the descendant of a witch, you’ve found a witch waiting for her broomstick.”
“Very funny,” said Rebecca. When Tristan and I turned curious eyes upon her, she explained in a desultory tone, “An ancestress of mine was hanged in the Salem witch trials. Frank finds that exotic.”
“Salem doesn’t count,” I said. “That was mass hysteria induced by ergot-tainted rye.”
“Correct,” said Rebecca in a so-there tone, her eyes darting toward her husband.
“But Salem is the epicenter of modern American witchiness,” said Tristan.
“That’s a bunch of commercial tourist-trap nonsense, and anyhow, what would I be looking for?” I asked again.
“If there really were witches,” Oda-sensei suggested, “maybe there are people today who know they were descended from them, and who continue some of the ritual elements even if the magic isn’t active. That is probably the case with the tsukimono-suji.”
“We can work with that,” said Tristan. “Stokes, get on it.”
“Salem won’t have any witch-descendants because—as I just said—Salem never had witches to start with,” I insisted. “If we’re looking for witch-spawn, we should check out someplace like New Orleans.”
Tristan considered this. “Go poke around Salem first. If you don’t find anything, maybe I’ll send you to New Orleans.”
Crikey, that was easy. And a perk I’d never get under Blevins! “Is this taxpayer-funded?” I asked. “No judgment. Just curious.”
“Classified,” he said, and gave me a wink.
Diachronicle
DAYS 222–244 (MARCH, YEAR 1)