13.
Walking Paper
The
Librarian filled his mug a third time with golden pilsner, alive with
a thousand tiny amber bubbles. Alone at his table in his favorite
Italian restaurant, cocooned by the aroma of warm bread, garlic, and
wine, he was at peace. So vast was his relief at the safe arrival of
the Otto
Lilienthal
in Frankfurt he managed to overcome his persistent fears and venture
out for a real meal. The Rose of Tuscany was a traditional restaurant
where they cooked with real butter, real cheese, and all the wines
were imported from the old country. Not that the owners were Italian;
the Laskaris family were Greek. Their culinary strategy was più
italiano di te,
and it worked.
He
wasn't drinking wine tonight. After weeks--months--of gargling with
bourbon, beer went down like spring water. He started to feel human
again after just half a pitcher.
It
was quiet here. Distant strains of Puccini emanated from comfortable
corners of the restaurant. There were no giant screens in the Rose.
That was another plus. A small 70 cm. screen glowed at the far end of
the bar for patrons to watch the Sox or Patriots, but the sound was
always muted. As an extra precaution against being reminded of the
dangers of the outside world, the Librarian took a seat with his back
to the distant screen.
He
savored his way through a basket of garlic rolls while waiting for
his insalata
verde while
his bistecca
fiorentina
was being prepared. His second knotted roll tore easily in two, but
before he could get a half in his mouth, he detected something alien.
A presence. A smell.
Turning
slowly, he looked toward the bar. It was early, just past seven, and
the bar had only one patron. Seated on one of the tall stools was a
hunched figure eating free breadsticks from a beer mug on the bar.
His hair was cropped close, and he wore a long military coat, too
heavy for summer. Georgie Laskaris, tending bar, was at the far end
of the counter filling condiment jars.
"Hey,"
Georgie said to the man. "You gonna order something?"
The
stranger held up a hand. Even from a distance the Librarian could see
his nails were long and dirty. Georgie approached skeptically.
"What'll
you have?"
The
man--apparently homeless, a street person--muttered something the
Librarian couldn't hear. Georgie's face split is a disbelieving grin.
"Lemme
see some money!"
The
stranger dug a hand in the pocket of his khaki shorts and produced a
well-worn Clavel 6T PDL. The Librarian hadn't seen the model in
years; it had been a popular starter device when he was still working
for the university. No one over twelve ever carried one.
It
seemed to work though. The homeless man flashed payment to the
bartender. Shaking his head, Georgie set a sparkling balloon glass on
the bar and poured a measured amount of brandy from a very old,
picturesquely dusty bottle. The man cradled it in both hands and
drank.
Show
over, the Librarian returned to his plate. His salad arrived.
Sometime before he finished the stranger at the bar finished his
brandy and departed without the Librarian noticing.
Dinner
was delightful. His waitress was Georgie's sister Sandy, and she kept
the bread basket filled and his mug brimming. When he declined
cannoli for dessert, she feigned checking his temperature by pressing
a warm hand to his forehead.
"That's
not like you, Mr. Miller!"
"It's
okay. I'm stuffed! Just the check, please."
She
flashed him the tab. Eyes narrowed she said, "Next time you will
have two cannoli!"
"Okay,
okay." He paid, tipping her generously.
Feeling
well fed and at peace for once, he sauntered to the foyer. It was
almost eight and the sun was still up, though the brick peaks around
him threw the street in deepening shade. Traffic was sparse too. The
Librarian checked the nylon bag hanging from his shoulder. The packet
was still there.
This
was the real reason for his evening out. After failing to get his
anonymous report about the dangerous ongoing anomalies surrounding
Victor Leventon to the FBI via Your/World, he'd tried to hand write
his findings instead. That document didn't make it out either.
Frightened, he'd numbed his nerves with liquor to the point he
couldn't get out of his apartment. The triumphant arrival of the
Zeppelin in Frankfurt this morning galvanized him to try again. He
spent all morning and most of the afternoon re-writing his
conclusions--and fears--into a thirty-nine page document. All the
links were there, painstakingly handwritten down to the last comma,
colon, and virgule. Unable to trust Your/World, he slipped the report
into a vintage manila envelope and printed out postage from
Your/World Postal so he could mail it to the Feds. No return address,
and he did not sign it. He wasn't worried about being traced. So few
handwritten documents existed these days he doubted the FBI (or
anyone else) could match his scrawl to his name.
Someone
was trying to get Leventon, that was certain. All his apps and
personal analytics pointed to this fact. Leventon's enemy had money,
influence, and deep Your/World access. There couldn't be many private
sources of such power. He excluded Hortalez et Cie. from the outset.
Jaquet-Droz was committed to ruining Leventon's attempt to defeat
FORT, but the Librarian could not imagine Jaquet-Droz trying to bring
down airliners, sinking a ferry, or endanger so many VIPs on
Lilienthal
just
to win a chess match.
Who
then?
The
events of the past three months, their timing, their relationship to
Victor Leventon's activities were all clear to him now. His theory
was absurd on the face of it, but terrifying in its implications. The
FBI needed to know. He could walk into 201 Maple Street, Chelsea, in
person, but he was afraid he'd never walk out again. Once Sanderson
Miller, the Librarian, was known to the Feds, his career and his
freedom would be over. Better to walk paper to the authorities.
Better to remain anonymous.
Dusk
was creeping over the street by the time he left The Rose of Tuscany.
The post office was two blocks away. LED street lamps came on
suddenly, silently, brightening with every step he made. He missed
old-fashioned street lights, the kind that buzzed and clicked when
they came on and hummed loudly thereafter. The cranky sound of those
lamps reminded you the technology was there, performing as it should.
Modern street lights, powered by stored sunlight, were close to
magic. Silent, almost organic, they were exotic trees that had grown
in place of the old lamps.
The
current Mt. Auburn Street Post Office dated from the 2035, done in
the 1930s WPA Revival style. A much larger facility was demolished
back then, a victim of the Walking Paper Collapse of 2031, when the
postal system nearly expired from lack of physical mail.
The
Librarian could see the front steps now only a block away. Though it
was early, it was a week night, and few people were abroad on foot.
Self-drivers and buses cruised past, but hardly any pedestrians. That
made it easy for him to spot the figure rising from the steps of the
Bancroft Bank just ahead. He recognized the brandy buyer from the
restaurant. The man stood and watched the Librarian pass. Once
beyond, he descended the steps and fell in behind the Librarian.
Alarms
went off in his head, though not because of Leventon's case or the
documents he was carrying. It was quite enough to get mugged for his
PDL, or whatever the stranger thought he had that was valuable.
The
Librarian quickened his pace. He cast about right and left, looking
for police, pedestrians, anyone he could fall in with to ward off his
shadow. Two couples, laughing and talking loudly, progressed down the
opposite of Mt. Auburn. They were no help.
At
this rate the post office came up fast. He hurried up the broad
steps, not daring to look back at his pursuer. The entrance was
well-lit, hardly the best place for a strong-arm robbery, but the
Librarian pushed through the painted faux-wooden doors into the
cavernous, empty lobby.
His
footfalls echoed on the hard marble floor. The lobby doglegged right
and he moved quickly into the long axis of the lobby. It was cool
here, pleasantly so after the muggy street. Along the long interior
wall where there would have been locked mail boxes fifty years ago
there were now row upon row of data ports. Patrons rented a port
which they could access with their PDL to receive packages and other
physical mail. Opposite the ports were tall, pseudo-Federal windows.
Now made of large sheets of polycarbonate, they had painted on
muntins to preserve the illusion of old-fashioned windows. At the far
end of the lobby a large 1930s style mural depicted Ben Franklin in
his guise as the first Postmaster.
The
outer door squeaked behind him. The Librarian retreated until his
back was hard against the data ports. Soft footsteps advanced.
"What
do you want?" he called.
The
man came around the corner. Without replying he walked to within
arm's reach and stopped. Up close the Librarian could see he was a
young man, not much past twenty, dirty from many days of living
rough. Under his khaki coat he wore the staple of thrift stores
everywhere, a black T-shirt with the logo of some band popular eight
or ten years past.
"What
do you want?" he repeated, less loudly this time.
In
his right hand a weapon appeared. Not even a knife, it was a ugly
spike about a dozen centimeters long, patinaed with rust: an ice
pick.
"Papers,"
he said.
"What
papers?"
He
pointed the ice pick at the Librarian's shoulder bag. "Papers."
Carefully,
the Librarian unslung the pouch. He held it out, just beyond the
young man's reach.
"They're
just papers, not worth anything."
"Give
'em."
He
held the bag out farther, letting the bag dangle from its strap. Pitying
the young man's rough appearance he asked, "What's your name?"
"Huh?"
The
Librarian repeatedly slowly, "What is your name?"
He
snatched the bag by the strap. Digging open the flap with the ice
pick he muttered, "Engelbert."
Engelbert?
Really? What the hell?
"Why
do you want my papers?"
"My
friend wants 'em."
Some
of the strength in the Librarian's legs left him. "What friend?"
The
young man didn't answer, but yanked out the manila envelope. He
dropped the bag and slid the worn steel spike under the flap. With a
single tug he tore it open.
"Engelbert."
No answer.
He
pulled the pages halfway out, exposing the Librarian's cramped
writing. Squinting at the scratches and squiggles of blue ink (which
he plainly did not understand), Engelbert returned the ice pick to
his pocket and brought out his childish PDL. He waved the camera lens
at the exposed pages.
Very
good. Bring them. So
said a distant voice distorted by the Clavel's cheap, tiny speaker.
"Engelbert,
who wants my papers?"
"You
don't ask!" he said with sudden fury. The pick was back, too
close to the Librarian's throat.
"Okay,
okay, you got them." He held his hands up, palms out. "We're
done, right?"
Engelbert
backed away a step or two, keeping the ice pick forward.
"You
stay here," he said, coughing slightly. "I see you again,
I'll stick ya."
To
prove his point, he drove the spike into one of the data ports. It
easily punched through the plastic face. Working it free, he backed
away, stuffing the envelope inside his coat. Then he disappeared
around the corner.
The
Librarian's knees failed. Wobbling, he sank to the polished floor.
How, how was his every move known and thwarted?
The
front plate of the port Engelbert pierced fell off. Within a web of
fiber optics glowed with a faint amber light. Looking up, the
Librarian stared at the ordered rows of ports lining the post office
wall. As he watched, the ranks of green LEDs changed to red in a
smooth, rapid ripple across the length of the lobby. Astounded, the
Librarian watched them sweep from left to right and back again. He
eased away. They resumed their green glow until some of the ports in
the center of the wall were outlined by two long rectangles of red
LEDs. In the center of each rectangle a single crimson LED tracked to
and fro from red-green-red, like the pupil of an eye darting from
side to side. The motion ceased. Two red eyes fixed on him.
Heedless
of Engelbert and his ice pick, the Librarian bolted through the post
office doors and ran, stumbling, all the way back to his apartment.
Not until he was behind six hand-keyed bolt locks did his heart begin
to slow down.
No
more. No more. No more.
#
Eight
blocks away, Engelbert hurried to his current haven, the Auto
Laundro-Matic. Sited on a side street off Mt. Auburn, the all-night
laundromat was his current address. He had access to the service
corridor behind a bank of dryers, thanks to his friend. She unlocked
the door for him every night. There he could sleep undisturbed. He
didn't even mind the sound of the big dryer drums turning. It was
kind of soothing.
It
was early, and the Auto Laundro was nearly empty. A guy in a muscle
shirt was stuffing dry clothes into a duffle bag as Engelbert burst
in. They eyed each other, then the guy swung the bag on one shoulder
and slipped out. Engelbert waited until no one was passing in front
of the wide front window before he opened a link on his child's PDL.
"Open
the door," he whispered. He heard a clank behind his back and
reached behind to try the knob. He was in.
The
corridor was striped with light. Beams from the public side filtered
through the louvers atop the dryers as well as through the narrow
gaps between machines. Engelbert slipped between the steel supports
holding up the dryers. His little nest and halfway down between the
door and front wall of the Auto Laundro. The service passage was warm
and filled with ankle-deep drifts of pastel lint.
He
slid down the wall. Lint swirled up when he reached the concrete.
"I'm
here."
The
Clavel 6T did not have a wireless retina viewer, but a tiny 4 by 5 cm. screen. It glowed in the half darkness, and there was his friend's
face.
"Good
work," she said. Seeing her smile was like a jolt of wack. He
grinned back.
"What'll
I do with the papers?"
"Destroy
them."
Puzzled,
he asked, "How?"
"Burning
is best."
He
had no way to make fire. People he knew smoked shit, but his drug of
choice, wack, was a liquid he inhaled.
"I
can flush 'em down the john," he offered.
"Burn
them."
She
didn't sound angry, but her displeasure poured over him like cold
rain. Stumbling a bit over his words, he wondered aloud how he could
burn the man's papers.
"Look
at the dryers," she said. "Look closely. Do you see the
wiring harness attached to the back of each unit?"
"Wiring
har--what?"
"A
bundle of wires connected to the heating element."
A
still picture appeared on the screen. He looked at the nearest dryer
and spotted multicolored strands of wire bound together with nylon
ties. Pointing the lens of his PDL at the strands, his benefactor
confirmed that's what she wanted.
"Pull
the harness loose from the connector." Again, a simple image on
the screen illustrated what she meant. Engelbert pulled the wire
bundle free.
"You'll
need something to short the connection with," she said. "A
piece of wire, and sort of metal--but it must be metal." He
mentioned the ice pick. "That will do."
From
the tiny screen the beautiful face praised his loyalty and diligence.
Next she told him to crumple up the Librarian's papers in a heap on
the floor. He did just as she directed.
"Now,
hold the pick by the wooden handle and bring the wire harness close
to the paper. Tap the metal spike against the exposed contacts.
You'll get a spark."
The
dryers operated on 440 volts AC at 30 amps. When the ice pick touched
both contacts there was a loud pop and bright flash. Startled,
Engelbert dropped the pick and scooted away from the wires.
"Try
again." He
shook his head. "Do
it for me, Bert."
She'd
never called him that before. Being given a nickname was like being
given a medal. Trembling, he raked through the drifts of lint for the
pick and the dryer power cord.
"That's
right. Try again."
He was not afraid, not if she asked him to do it. Shoving the
cable into the pile of wadded paper, he applied the metal shaft of
the pick across the contacts once more. Another flash, but he kept
his hands steady. A flame curled up from the paper.
"Excellent!"
He laughed, delighted in her approval.
The
flame spread. Smoke began to fill the corridor. Coughing, Engelbert
edged away. Piles of lint melted and caught fire. The flames spread.
"Gotta
get out," he said. He pushed backward until he could rise to a
crouch behind the dryer supports. At the door he tried the knob. It
would not turn.
"The
door's locked!" he said, coughing more now. "Open the
door!"
"The
papers must be destroyed."
All
six dryers groaned to life. The three-phase motors were normally
designed to rotate clockwise so that the attached fans blew outward,
sending a stream of steamy air and lint out through exhaust vents at
the front of the drums. Now, for some reason the big drums rolled in
reverse. As they gained speed, hot air blasted backward into the
service space. The pile of burning papers flew to cinders, winking
red in the dark as they smashed against the back wall and along the
passage. Lint in the air caught fire.
"Open
the door! Open it!"
Engelbert's
coat hem ignited. His shoe laces, knotted and re-knotted every time
they'd broken, curled and caught fire.
"Let
me out!"
The
Clavel's cheap plastic housing began to melt. From the sagging LCD
screen the face flickered and vanished into a few milliliters of
liquid crystal. Still the speaker whispered, "The papers must be
destroyed."
He
pounded on the door, but it did not yield. In moments the fire burst
through the closed dryer doors, flashing over into the Auto Laundro
proper. Empty detergent paks, food wraps, and other waste ignited in
nearby trash cans. As the blaze spread, the overhead sprinklers
stubbornly refused to open. It wasn't until heat shattered the front
picture window that passers-by noticed the fire and called for help.
By then everything in the laundromat was in flames.
#
At
home, the Librarian sat at his desk, wrapped in his favorite
bathrobe. The revolver weighed heavily in his lap, but he kept his
hand on the grip until it was slick with sweat. In his other hand he
held a tall water glass of amber liquor. After a few long swallows
the terror faded. By the time he emptied the glass he didn't even
notice the wail of sirens passing by.
