The Map of Chaos (40 page)

His companion did not reply; he simply contemplated him at length while the first man held his gaze, neither of them moving a muscle. But allow me to add, dear reader, just for the record, that despite their disquieting stillness the two men's faces, illuminated faintly by the glow from the fire, weren't altogether unpleasant: both had strong, symmetrical features that could even be considered handsome. And yet the exquisite paleness of their skin did not seem human and was moreover tarnished by a kind of dark tint that somehow seemed not to belong to it, like the shadow a cloud casts on the snow. At last, after the prolonged silence, the second man's lips began to vibrate imperceptibly: “You are suffering from a serious fault in your peptidogenesis, my friend. Perhaps a guilt neutralizer would minimize the unwanted effects of your remorse.”

“I feel what you say is truth. But remember, we are no longer receiving any consignments from the Other Side.”

“I feel what you say is truth.”

There was another silence.

“What is the feeling of guilt like?” the second stranger asked.

His question elicited an even longer silence.

“How can I explain it? Imagine taking a huge dose of neuropeptides AB3003 and AZ001,” the first stranger finally replied, “that canceled out all your connective mutation neutralizers.”

The other raised his eyebrows slightly. “I feel surprised! Then . . . I suppose it is very similar to the sensation of pity.”

“So they say. Although I've heard that guilt is more addictive.” The first stranger stroked the handle of his cane with his forefinger. It was an extremely slow, almost imperceptible movement. “So . . . you've experienced pity.”

“I have: I suffered a slight mutation soon after arriving here. That is why I feel sympathy for what you are going through. My bio-cells developed their own connections based on segments of my AZ model, producing their own neuropeptide chains. For a while I experienced the feeling of pity. Thank goodness it was quickly diagnosed, and in those days there was no problem with the consignments. Even so, it took three types of neutralizers to solve the problem.”

“As I understand it,” said the man who was afraid of finding old women or children when he followed his next trail, “years ago they discovered that the AZ model was responsible for nearly all those random mutations, and the Scientists decided to phase it out. That's why the last group of Executioners sent two years ago doesn't have it.”

“Then they are lucky.”

“They aren't aware of it: the feeling of satisfaction was a feature of the AZ model.”

The two men's shoulders trembled for a few seconds, in what for them was presumably a moment of shared amusement. Another lengthy silence followed.

“Two years . . . It's been two years since the Other Side sent anything or anyone,” remarked the first stranger.

“They are nearing the end. The temperature is almost zero and there are hardly any black holes left. Everything there is slow and dark now. They are saving their last, feeble strength in the event the Great Exodus might still be possible . . .”

“Then they're saving it in vain,” his companion pronounced. “They'll never be reborn here: this world is doomed. I feel frustration. I feel impotence. We've carried out a senseless slaughter.”

“We have done our job and have done it well. They needed more time and we gave it to them. We even provided two years more than they expected from their worst predictions. Remember that twelve years ago the Scientists calculated that this world had only a decade left . . .”

“Yes, but we, the Executioners, managed to claw back another two years.”

The man who did not want to encounter old women or children rapped the floor with his cane. The gesture was so out of character that his companion raised his eyebrows several millimeters in surprise. “Yes, we did our job,” the first stranger went on, ignoring the other man's silent disapproval. “And we did it well. That's why they created us, isn't it?” The stranger's voice, still inaudible to anyone who didn't press his ear to his lips, was slightly raised, or perhaps it wasn't, perhaps it had simply acquired a few nuances, like sarcasm or resentment, that the human ear could hear. “Even so, I insist it has been senseless.” He rapped his cane on the floor again as his face began to flush. “The Scientists haven't managed to find a cure for the epidemic. They haven't even come close. And exterminating the carriers . . . well, it was always a crude solution, as chaotic as the malady itself. The epidemic is uncontainable, it always was. All those deaths for nothing!”

“Return to a state of calm, my friend. Return to . . .”

“They boast of possessing Supreme Knowledge and look down on us; they refer to us as killers. It enrages me just to think about it. They have no idea what it means to look into a child's eyes, to show him in your pupils the chaos for which he must die, and then put him to death . . . I could tell them a thing or two about their famous Supreme Knowledge!”

“Return to a state of calm!” The second stranger leaned forward and placed a hand on his companion's cane. It was an extremely swift, imperceptible movement. “The end is near,” he reminded him in an expressionless voice. “What does it matter how many of them you have slain? They are all going to die. What does it matter what the Scientists think of us? We are all going to die.”

With those words, both men sat up straight in their chairs again and remained silent. The one who had rapped the floor with his cane several times seemed gradually to regain his composure. After a while, he spoke again.

“I'm sorry. It's the effects of the remorse. If I don't get hold of a guilt neutralizer soon it will be the death of me. But as you so rightly said, what does it matter? What does anything matter now? Chaos is inevitable.”

“Chaos is inevitable,” the other man repeated. “And so is our mission, my friend. That is why we were created, and we must go on accomplishing it until the bitter end. Otherwise, what is the point of our existence?”

“If only one more death were needed. A single death that would put a stop to it all . . .”

“And if that one death were the death of an old woman or a child?”

The Executioner who suffered from guilt closed his eyes and smiled.

“I feel what you say is truth. And if it's true that I need a guilt neutralizer”—he looked at his companion—“you could do with one for sarcasm, my friend.”

Perhaps what made both men shake gently for a few moments was another fit of laughter. Or perhaps not.

“Go on until the bitter end . . .” The one whom guilt was destroying shrugged slowly. “Why not? After all, it won't be long now. The fabric of the universe is as riddled with holes as a moth-eaten sweater. The molecular traces of the carriers have become as jumbled as the roads on a crumpled map; their trails are growing so faint that it's almost impossible to distinguish between the terminal molecules of a Destructor of whatever rank and those of a natural Jumper. Our tunnels are no longer infallible; our searches have become random, intuitive . . . This world is coming apart at the seams. Any day could be the last. And when that day comes, men will get out of bed and look out of the window on a world inhabited by horrific, unimaginable phenomena, a world invaded by their worst nightmares. And I promise you that all those we haven't killed will wish they were dead.”

“The background molecular nebula has increased a hundredfold in the past few months,” his companion remarked. “Only today, on the moor, I sensed a very high concentration of it. I suspect that in one of the nearby houses a window onto another world must have opened momentarily, but I was unable to detect whether anyone had jumped through it or not. And yet, only four or five years ago, catching our prey was a daily event, do you remember? What rich pickings we found in this sector! Almost as valuable as the ones at that famous haunted house in Berkeley Square. Not a day went by in one of those hyperproximity points where whoever was on duty didn't capture a couple of level 6 Destructors at least. But those days are over. All I managed to detect today—more by accident than anything else, I suspect—was a potential aura. My cane picked it up. It was an old level 3 Destructor whom I had trailed before; the last time was two years ago, at the entrance to the Royal Opera House. That evening I almost caught him, but he was lucky, I let him go because I came across a level 6
plus
Destructor. Luck was on his side again today, for as soon as I perceived him I lost him again. His aura simply dissolved into the background mist.”

“Their aura is very faint when they haven't jumped for a while,” his companion sympathized. “In any case, a Latent isn't such a big haul . . .”

“It is better than nothing.”

“I feel what you say is truth. But tell me . . . that level six
plus
detector you just mentioned, it wasn't . . . ?”

There was a fresh silence. The Executioner who had lost the trail of the quarry he had let go two years before followed a drop of moisture trickling slowly down the side of his beer tankard, until he saw it merge with a small pool forming on the table. A few seconds later, he spoke.

“No, it was not the legendary M. That night I caught a big one, it is true, but it was not M. M's trail is unmistakable and was still being detected until relatively recently. It seems the legendary M is still jumping.”

“I feel astonishment. I don't understand why he hasn't already disintegrated. Other far less active Destructors than he have already lost all their molecules . . . He should have been classified as terminal a long time ago.”

“A six
plus
is never classified as terminal, my friend. They are considered Destructors down to their last surviving molecule. And M is the most powerful and fearsome Destructor of any we have ever come across since we started fighting this epidemic. His talents are as astonishing and formidable as his lunacy. Indeed, if M has become invisible, which I am sure he has, he is still as powerful as a hundred level 6 Destructors.”

“I was on his trail for a while; there was even a time when I thought I might actually be able to catch him,” said the man who felt guilty about his terrible task.

“And who has not? We have all dreamt of catching him. We have all tried to fish that legendary fifteen-pound salmon that snatches all our bait and avoids all our hooks. Oh, yes, dear friend, whenever I go to Lake Windermere, I pray the legendary fish is still alive and kicking and will end up dangling from my rod.”

Mr. Hall, who had finally been forced by his wife's nagging to approach the two men, cleared his throat timidly.

“Gentlemen . . . forgive me for interrupting, but . . .” When the men looked up at him, Mr. Hall felt that terrible emptiness inside, which made him recoil. “Er, will you be wanting another drink?”

Before either of them could reply, the inn door swung open, and a small figure stumbled in, coming to a halt in the middle of the room. He stood motionless for a few seconds, gasping for air and casting his glazed eyes around the room. He was shivering from head to toe, and beads of sweat mixed with tears rolled down his face. Mrs. Hall went over to the boy and gently placed her hand on his bony shoulder.

“Whatever's the matter, lad?” she whispered

And at that point, little Tommy Dawkins began to scream.

D
OYLE SET SAIL FOR
S
OUTH
A
FRICA
on the
Oriental
surrounded by flowers. Jean Leckie, who did not wish to see him off at the Port of Tilbury, had filled his cabin with roses, hibiscus, and lilies, so that Doyle and his valet, sitting on their bunks and besieged by that riot of color, undertook the voyage like a couple of lovebirds in a floating greenhouse. If Doyle had been given the choice, he would have preferred to see Jean in person, but she had made it very clear she did not wish to be part of the joyous crowd that would see off the ship, as if the man who every year on the fifteenth of March sent her an edelweiss, that flower whose whiteness rivaled that of snow, were going on a picnic and not to a war from which he might return in a box after receiving a Boer bullet in his stomach. Fortunately, Doyle would return six months later on his own two feet, if enveloped in quite a different odor than on the outward journey. The long weeks he had spent as a doctor in his friend's hospital, sewing up the guts of dying soldiers and amputating their limbs, including those of Jim Dawkins, who would never ride his bicycle again, had impregnated him with the indelible perfume of death—a death devoid of heroism or glamour, foul and dirty, covered in flies and noxious odors, a death that belonged more to the Middle Ages than to the new century dawning.

But as he climbed the stairs at Undershaw, all of that seemed like a dream. He had scarcely been home a week, and already the peaceful idyll had begun to make him doubt he had ever been in the war in Africa—that was, until he visited the bathroom, for his guts had still not recovered from the bouts of dysentery he had suffered. He paused in front of the door to the room with the best views in the house. Stanley Ball, the architect with whom he had once practiced telepathy, had built it on the three and a half acres of land Doyle had purchased in Hindhead, which was referred to as Little Switzerland because of its clean air and spectacular hills. However, Ball hadn't needed to rack his brains to get some idea of what he wanted, as Doyle had made a sketch for him on a piece of paper. He had a very clear idea of how he wanted Undershaw to be: an imposing mansion worthy of an author of his stature, but also a cozy family home, practical for an invalid.

After considering whether to knock or not, Doyle decided to open the door without a sound. Lately, his wife would have a snooze when she went upstairs to read, and that morning was no exception: Louise, whom Doyle had affectionately nicknamed Touie back in the far-off days when they first knew each other in Portsmouth, was reclining in an armchair, her head tilted to one side, her eyes closed. She had been proving Sir Richard Douglas Powell, one of the country's leading TB specialists, wrong for many years now, so it was no wonder she felt exhausted. From their trip to Switzerland, Doyle had brought back the idea of how to finish off Holmes, whereas Touie had brought back in her lungs
Mycobacterium tuberculosis.
The doctors had given her no more than three months to live, and yet eight years had passed since that unfavorable prognosis and Touie was still alive, thanks undoubtedly to the ministrations of Doyle, who no sooner did he receive the news than he whisked her away on a therapeutic pilgrimage to Davos, Caux, and Cairo, and finally he built the house in Hindhead with all the comforts an invalid such as she could possibly need. However, although his ministrations appeared to have kept the gentle Touie's condition stable, everyone knew that it was only a matter of time before Death, which Doyle had so long kept at bay, finally took his wife, without his being able to prevent it.