Lord of All Things (17 page)

“But don’t you have to do a lot of library work?” Hiroshi had asked. “I kind of imagine that’s how you study anthropology.”

“I mainly want to do excavation work later,” she had replied.

“Is that why you picked it as a major? So that you can use your power?”

At that she had given him a strange, secretive look and replied that no, that hadn’t been the main reason, but she couldn’t tell him now; she would have to show him one day. Hiroshi shook his head, astonished. How long ago it had all been. The girl in the nightgown standing out in the rain late at night; somehow it was like remembering a marvelous dream, but it had really happened. Hard to believe.

He jumped up, looked under the bed for a particular box, and took it out. He blew the dust away and opened the lid. There it was, his old
Masters of the Universe
notebook where he had written down all the secrets of his master plan when he was growing up. He opened the book. It was nearly full, with only the last three pages still blank. Hiroshi leafed through it, looking at the pages he had filled to the very edges with scribbles and cross-section plans. He read his carefully handwritten notes, thoughts and second thoughts, strike-throughs and additions. He had to smile at a lot of what he read, especially in the first pages, his very first naive ideas from when he’d still been a kid. Back then he had thought the world was a whole lot simpler than it actually turned out to be. On the other hand…a lot of what he read in this old notebook was amazingly insightful from where he stood today. Bold. Lucid in the true sense. How on earth had he been able to think like that when he had been just thirteen, fourteen years old?

Hiroshi looked up from the pages and out the window, gazing into the sky. Today it was such an intense blue that it seemed to vibrate. He thought back on everything that had happened in his life since then. Thought of his school days. Of all the books he had devoured. Of his scientific work so far. It was a real shock to look back at the Hiroshi of those years, to remember the boundless confidence that had flooded him as a child when he had first had the idea. And what was he doing now? Conducting careful little experiments, proposing tentative theories, studying articles by people who really had no idea, and trying the whole time to be scientifically rigorous in everything he did, making sure there was no angle from which he could be attacked—covering his back.

He leafed through the colorful, rustling pages some more. Here in his hands he had a plan that would change the world from the ground up. He’d had it lying in his desk drawer for years, complete in every detail, and what was he doing? He’d invented a gizmo to save folks the trouble of having to measure a room. He wrote smartass essays for a seminar where the grades were irrelevant. He got into tussles with a professional neurotic over a glass of champagne, risking a black eye for his wisecracks. He was very definitely punching below his weight.

He closed the box, put it back where he’d found it, then sat down at his desk with his old notebook to read it from cover to cover. Every page. To refresh himself on all the thoughts and ideas he had ever had for his grand plan. To remember, remember, remember. It was a trip back in time, almost more than seeing Charlotte again had been. The hours flew by, and he had to laugh, smile indulgently—and raise his eyebrows in wonder. There was so much here that would really work. Maybe not exactly how he had imagined it when he was fourteen, but in principle. At some point he realized he had a pen in his hand and was making more notes. That he was excited.

As he sat there, his initial feeling of having wasted his time all these years changed to a strange certainty he had opened this notebook again at exactly the right moment. That it was good it had spent all those years put aside, almost forgotten. That something had needed time to mature, to age, to ripen in a forgotten corner. That everything that had happened, everything that was happening now, everything that was still to come, was fate.

When he closed the worn, old pages at last, He-Man and Skeletor glared back at him from the cover. He felt a sense of certainty he had not felt for a long time. He picked up his phone and scrolled through the list until he found Charlotte’s number, which he had saved last night. He had to see her again. That was the logical next step.

James finally called around four o’clock, all in a flurry. “We’re going out! Get yourself ready. I’ll pick you up around seven.”

Charlotte didn’t have a chance to protest. Which was all right by her, she mused as she put the phone down. It meant she didn’t have to cook. For some reason she didn’t feel like it today.

James always turned up either too early or too late, never right on time. Today he arrived at half past six. Charlotte was just brushing her hair when she saw his Jaguar come roaring up the street and swerve in by her garage. She put the brush down and opened the door, and there was James bounding up the stairs. He flung his arms around her and kissed her passionately as though they hadn’t seen each other in weeks.

Charlotte gasped. “For goodness’ sake, James!” she said, beginning to worry about her dress.

“I can’t help it,” he murmured, his mouth nuzzling at her neck. “You look ravishing.”

It wasn’t as though his compliments were particularly original. But the way he uttered them, she felt he meant every word. On top of which he was so damn good-looking. And strong—the very embodiment of animal masculinity. And so on and so forth. Charlotte closed her eyes and surrendered to his kisses, felt his arousal. Well, she had assumed they would be having sex today anyway, but this felt as though he had forgotten the restaurant entirely and wanted to have her right away. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

Just then, however, he let go of her and conjured up a clear plastic box from somewhere with the most marvelous orchid brooch inside. He handed it to Charlotte with a flourish and said, “For the most beautiful woman in the world.”

Unoriginal indeed, but it worked. Her fingers trembled as she took the orchid and fixed it to her dress with the pin. It sent up a heavy, intoxicating scent, and for a moment Charlotte felt like an insect queen, wafting out pheromones to lure in males. Perhaps she would eat him whole after sex.

“Is today a special date of some kind?” she had to ask. Normally, she never forgot birthdays or anniversaries.

James gazed adoringly into her eyes. “Every day with you is a special day,” he said earnestly. “Also, we’re going to Altair.”

Charlotte blinked in confusion. She knew the name from somewhere. “Altair?”

“
Cuisine française
,” James declared grandly.

As always when he mangled her beautiful French language, she shuddered. “And why, all of a sudden?”

“Checking out their menu. Mother thinks we could have the engagement party there.”

“Ah.” Another of those moments when she thought she must have missed something important. His mother? What did she have to do with anything? It sounded as though preparations were already underway that she knew nothing about—after all, the two of them had never even talked about setting a date. He had simply asked, do you want to? And she had said yes and let him put the ring on her finger. A diamond ring. The diamond had been found by a South African mine worker who couldn’t afford to pay a doctor for his sick daughter. James was disappointed she never wore it, but somehow she wasn’t ready yet to tell him about her strange gift.

They set out. As Charlotte sank back into the soft, warm leather of the passenger seat, James made some conventional compliment, muffled by the satisfying clunk of the closing door. Some comment about envying the upholstery. Charlotte could only summon a crooked smile. It was odd—the idea of going to bed with James tonight didn’t excite her as it usually did. She would have liked more than anything else to go home after dinner, tumble into bed, and fall asleep. She already felt as though she might fall asleep on the spot if she kept her eyes closed for more than ten seconds. Last night had been too short.

James drove the way he made love: behind the wheel he was brisk, determined, powerful. That, and the car’s solid construction, made her feel safe sitting by his side. The only thing that always annoyed her about the Jaguar was that although she could see the world outside, she couldn’t hear a thing. The motor purred away, but even in the densest traffic she could hear herself breathe in this car. When she looked out the window, she always felt cut off from the world. As though the buildings, the cars, and the pedestrians out there were just a silent film.

“And by the way, Mother has already made us an appointment with a certain Miss Jeffries,” James declared. “She looks after the whole organizational side at Altair. We’re supposed to talk to her about her ideas, what kind of event she would suggest, all of that. Next Thursday, half past nine. I told her you have Thursday mornings free—isn’t that right?”

Charlotte pouted. “This Thursday I’m going to the hairdresser.”

James said nothing.

“No problem,” she said and sighed. “I can cancel.”

He looked across at her for a moment. “Honestly, I have no idea how you can bear to cut off even an inch of your hair. I love it just the way it is.”

“When a woman’s hair is this long, she has to look after it. If I didn’t go to the hairdresser, I would end up looking like I was wearing a mop on my head. I’m sure you wouldn’t like that.”

He laughed merrily. “You’re right,” he said.

Charlotte lifted her orchid and inhaled. What was wrong with her? Was it because the topic of the engagement party had come up so suddenly? For some reason she felt ambushed. Was that it? Did she not feel ready yet after all? When she had said something of the kind to her mother recently, Maman had curtly reminded her that when she was her age she was not just married but also practically halfway to the maternity ward.

She remembered what Brenda always said. Her watchword was that you always had to be 100 percent sure. You had to imagine being old as the hills and lying on your deathbed and looking back over your life. And then you had to be able to say yes, I spent it with the right man. Charlotte couldn’t really imagine being as old as the hills, and thinking of her deathbed just gave her the shivers. But despite that—yes, she was sure. Fairly sure anyway. And it was perfectly normal at a time like this to be a little fearful of the bold step ahead.

As though he could read her thoughts, James broke in at that very moment to say, “By the way, about giving your friend Brenda a hand moving on Saturday…”

“Yes?”

He heaved a great sigh. “I can’t come after all. Tennis. My father asked me to play doubles with him against two of his business partners. It’s some kind of big deal for the company. Strategic stuff. I couldn’t say no.”

Charlotte looked at him and wondered whether it was true. It was definitely a pretext of some kind. The plain and simple truth of it was that James just couldn’t stand Brenda. In fact, he always found something to criticize in all her friends and acquaintances, male or female. He had told Charlotte once that he wanted to have her all to himself.

“That’s too bad,” she said.

Altair had valet parking; all they had to do was get out and give the key to a man in a chic gray-blue uniform, who took care of everything.

“That’s a good start,” James said happily as they walked up the thick, gray-blue carpet to the entrance.

The sun was behind them, low on the horizon, a ball of red fire mirrored in the restaurant windows and drenching the rooms beyond in flame. The sight made Charlotte think of Hiroshi for some reason and how he was bound to call again. Better if he didn’t call today of all days. She took her phone from her handbag and switched it off.

The sun was just setting, drenching the sky in blood-red gold. The reflection from the apartment windows across the street almost blinded Hiroshi.

Not that he would have noticed. He sat there with the telephone in his hand, his eyes half-closed, deep in thought. Charlotte’s telephone number glowed on the display. His finger hovered over the “Dial” button. All he had to do was press it—so what was holding him back? Was he suddenly shy? Afraid of disappointment? Nothing of the kind, he decided at last as he switched the phone off and put it aside. It just wasn’t the right moment, that was all.

3

A wicked rumor had it that Prof. Sheldon Bowers had set his office hours early on Monday mornings so that as few students as possible would ever come to see him. Those who made it anyway were either single-minded or so badly in need of his help that they were even willing to lay off the alcohol over the weekend and get to sleep on time. Hiroshi was one of the single-minded ones. This morning he was already standing waiting at Bowers’s door when the prof came in to work.

Bowers was solidly built, his bald head polished to a high shine, and his heavy, black-rimmed glasses perched on an impressive hook nose. Further rumors said he wore only organic cotton, that he was a vegetarian, and he could hold forth at length about what was wrong with the tap water in various states of the union. His academic area was complex-systems research.

“All right, all right,” he grumbled once he was near enough he could no longer ignore Hiroshi’s presence. “So where’s the fire?”

“It’s about my term project,” Hiroshi said.

“I guessed as much,” said Bowers, fishing around in his jacket pocket for his keys. “Let me guess a little more. You’re getting bogged down, and you want to focus your topic more tightly.”

“Not at all,” Hiroshi said. “I want to expand it.”

Bowers stopped in his tracks and looked at him, his light gray eyes filled with interest. “You amaze me. Well, this might just turn out to be an interesting week.” He turned the key and opened his office door. “Come on in.”

The office was a patchwork of furniture, shelves about to collapse under the weight of books, files, and technical equipment, and houseplants parched for lack of watering. In other words, it was a typical MIT prof’s office. Bowers gestured curtly toward a chair, dropped his briefcase onto one of the piles of papers heaped up by his desk, and sank into his seat on the other side. Hiroshi handed him the new project proposal, which he had spent last night working on. He had still been writing and revising it at three thirty in the morning and had barely slept afterward, and he felt as though he might fall out of his chair at any moment. But it had to be done this way—there was no time to lose.

Prof. Bowers took the folder without comment, glanced over the text, and then said, “Hmm.” He turned back to the beginning and read it closely all the way through. Hiroshi waited patiently.

“So instead of simulating your construction in a computer model, you want to move straight on to building it, is that right?” Bowers asked at last, peering at him over his glasses.

“Exactly,” Hiroshi said. “That’s the long and the short of it.”

“But why? Have you lost your trust in computers?”

“Not at all. But building the apparatus for real would be the next step anyway.”

“You want to take two steps at once.”

“I want to make real headway, not just take baby steps.”

The project was a new kind of robotic position-finding system that would work on the swarm principle—and reading through his old notebook the day before, he had found to his astonishment that he already had the idea when he was thirteen years old. He just hadn’t remembered it. The basic idea was to build not a single complex robot that used some sort of signaling system to identify its location, but a whole group of simpler machines that would work together by using one another as reference points. Some robots in the group would take up fixed positions and cling tight to one another; other robots would then use those as a sort of scaffolding to do the actual work. Once the job was done, the workbots would climb back down, the scaffolding elements let go of one another, and then the whole swarm would move on to its next task. For the moment there was no way of knowing what practical applications this technology might have. That, however, was not the point. For MIT to support and finance a research project, the most important consideration was whether it would lead to new insights.

Hiroshi cleared his throat and told the prof what he had just been reading on paper. “A computer simulation would serve to demonstrate the basic working principles of a swarm like this. It could show us how it works, or how the scaffold and the manipulators work together. But it couldn’t begin to show us the effects of measurement tolerances, gravity, torque, stress, or any of that. None of those variables would register in a simple computer simulation. If I tell element
X
to take up position
Y
, then all that happens is a couple of lines of code do exactly that. But in reality an arm might bend as it reaches out to take hold, or tiny measurement errors might compound as the distances grow, or the cogwheels may not mesh exactly, that sort of thing. None of that would register in a simulation at the level I originally planned to write. If we want to model all these factors, we would have to code it in considerably more detail, describing each and every one of the robots as a finite element model. I estimate that would actually be much more expensive than simply building the machine for a lab test. You can find my figures in Appendix B.”

“I see, I see.” Prof. Bowers took off his glasses and chewed on one of the ends while he studied a page of formulas in Hiroshi’s proposal. “You know, you’re probably right. But the problem is a lab test still costs more than the current simulation. I can’t just go ahead and approve it, especially since the approval is still pending for your original project.”

Hiroshi sat there motionless. “Last time we spoke you said it was just a formality.”

“Well sure, but once we increase the budget tenfold, it stops being a formality.” Prof. Bowers put his glasses back on, set Hiroshi’s proposal down on the desk in front of him, and folded his hands across it. He said, “I’ll pass this up the chain. You’ll be hearing from me.”

“Miss Malroux?” It was Tuesday, after Dr. Thomas Wickersham’s seminar. “Could I speak with you for a moment?”

Charlotte stopped. Somehow she managed not to heave a sigh. So it was happening just as she had feared. She waited while the others filed out of the seminar room. Some of them glanced at her knowingly, one or two even mockingly. They knew whatever happened next was bound to be fairly embarrassing.

Dr. Wickersham had a cheerful gaze and a funny little goatee beard. He seemed not the least bit bothered by the fact that even at his early age his hairline was receding rapidly. He had an excellent reputation as a paleoanthropologist and had done a great deal of fieldwork in the Near East, where he spoke several of the local languages. He published in the most prestigious journals, and his seminars were always fascinating, thanks to his gift for presenting the material clearly and memorably without ever cutting corners. But recently the students had all noticed Dr. Wickersham had a soft spot for Charlotte.

“I’d like to ask you something,” he began once they had all left. The door to the hallway was still open. “I’ve realized I could never forgive myself if I didn’t ask, so really, best get it over and done with. And of course I hardly need mention that whatever answer you give will have no effect at all on your grade or on any other aspect of this seminar, or on your time here at Harvard.”

Charlotte looked at him unhappily. “Yes?”

“Would you do me the great favor of agreeing to a date?” Then he added hastily, as though he had just now realized how rashly he had acted, “I know very little about you, Miss Malroux—far too little. All I know is that your father is a French diplomat and that you have traveled the word a great deal, even as a child…I should imagine you must have an unusual life story. I’d like to hear a little more about it. If possible over a good meal.”

He was standing on the other side of the lecturer’s desk, several yards away, but even so he was taking a considerable risk. Relationships between faculty and students were regarded with deep suspicion at Harvard; indeed, they were basically banned. There were very strict rules against sexual harassment, which Charlotte thought were paranoid. As a result, the male faculty always took great care never to be alone with a female student. If Charlotte chose to run out screaming into the hallway and claim Dr. Wickersham had made a pass at her, there would be no helping him; it would be the end of his career.

“Dr. Wickersham,” Charlotte said carefully, “that’s a very kind offer, but as it happens I am about to announce my engagement, so I don’t know—”

He swallowed and shook his head hastily. “Oh, that makes it all the more urgent, then! Please believe me, I am only proposing a…conversation, a pleasant evening between friends…” He took a deep breath. “I could book a table at Cloud Eight on Saturday—it’s not the haute cuisine
you’re used to in France, of course, but even so it’s the best Boston has to offer. What do you say?”

Charlotte knew the restaurant; James had taken her there a couple of times. At least twenty dollars for an appetizer, and a wine list that would impress even her father.

Now she could sigh. “On Saturday,” she said, “I’m helping a friend move. I’m afraid I’ll be in no fit state for conversation by the evening. I really don’t know. Please don’t think that I don’t appreciate your invitation, but—”

Dr. Wickersham looked at her attentively. “Would it be shameless of me to invite myself?”

“I’m sorry? Where?”

“To help your friend move house. In my experience another pair of helping hands is always useful.”

For a moment Charlotte felt she was dreaming. “Oh, of course,” she said without thinking. “That would be wonderful. As it happens, someone’s just had to drop out.” Was this really happening? Was her paleoanthropology professor actually offering to come and heave crates so that her best friend could move?

“Well then,” Wickersham said happily, taking out his appointment book, “you just tell me the time and the address, and I’ll be there.” He looked up and seemed to notice her astonishment. “I moved nineteen times while I was a student,” he explained with a grin. “So many people helped me out back then that I figure I’m still in debt. If nothing else it’s a good workout, and you usually meet some interesting people.” He raised his eyebrows. “And if we don’t sit down afterward to eat a pizza or some such, that would be a first in my experience.”

Charlotte couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s fine,” she said. “It seems a little odd, but…of course. Happy to have your help.” As she gave him Brenda’s address and watched him write it down, she suddenly found herself wondering how it would feel to be clasped in those slender hands, what it would be like if he did take hold of her, caress her, full of desire. She felt herself blushing. What on earth was wrong with her?

On Wednesday morning James caught his hand in the car door—not badly, but nonetheless annoying. At lunch he splatted his shirt with ketchup, and then he made a fool of himself in the History of Ceramics class, since he’d forgotten they were supposed to read an article on the Yangshao culture. The Chinese had already been firing ceramics eight thousand years before Christ, for crying out loud, and when Dr. Urban showed them those pots, he, James, had declared that they were Greek. For whatever reason, it didn’t seem to be his day.

But then, as he was headed over to the library, resolved to catch up on his reading, things took a turn for the better. He spotted a familiar figure out of the corner of his eye: Terry Miller, standing in front of the bulletin board, jotting something down from a flyer. Terry with her ponytail. What could be absorbing her attention so? James strolled up behind her. The flyer had been put up by someone called Kenny Higgins, who was offering students golf lessons at discount prices.

You’ve walked right into my trap, little mouse
, James thought happily. He stepped up beside her and made sure she noticed him before he spoke. “Hi, Terry. How’s it going?”

“Hi, JB,” she said, still writing.

“You play golf? Am I going to have to watch my back in the next cup?”

She laughed. “I think you can rest easy for a couple of months yet.”

He pointed at the flyer. “I hope you’re not thinking of giving your money to that guy.”

“It looks like,” Terry said, shutting her notebook. She snapped the elastic band around it and stuffed it back into her bag. Today she was carrying a giant sunflower. “He has to make a living.”

“Well sure, but he could find some other line of work than teaching beginners how not to play golf.” He crossed his arms and looked at her with deep concern in his eyes. “I mean, sure, nothing against Kenny—he’s a nice guy and all—but the way he plays golf…I just wonder how he thinks he can teach a beginner anything when he never even knows which club to use. That’s not to mention his swing. Let’s just say it…leaves a lot to be desired.”

All of which was sheer bluff, of course. He’d never even heard of the guy. Although actually that was a point against him, since James knew most of the really good golfers by name. And it was having the desired effect. Terry was visibly put off.
Little mouse.

“That’s not really true, is it?” she asked, frowning prettily.

Time to spring his trap. He spread his hands, shrugged, and said, “I can’t in good faith let Kenny spoil your game before you even get started. I’ll make you a friendly offer: let’s meet on the course, and I’ll teach you some of the basics. Then you can at least think about it—you’ll have something to judge him by.”

She opened her eyes wide, incredulous. “You’d do that for me?”

“I have to,” he answered earnestly. “Golf is far too fine a sport for me to let some half-assed instructor give you the wrong ideas.” And, of course, it was an ideal opportunity for them to get to know each other better. Just how much better she would find out soon.

“Okay then, I won’t say no.” She smiled, little knowing what was to come.

“Okay then. When would you have time? Tomorrow?” Strike while the iron is hot. He heartily approved of the proverb. Chances like this didn’t come twice.

“Sure, if you have time.”

He gave her a cheerful smile. “You’re looking at a free man, my dear. I decide when I have time. So listen: come to the Silverway Golf Course at nine o’clock tomorrow morning, and ask at reception for Charles Hauser. He’s a friend of mine, and I’ll tell him to fit you out with everything you’ll need. And then we’ll set out and see whether we can’t score a hole in one.”