to find him . . . there are two theories at the moment.”
Oslett noticed the “your Alfie” instead of “our Alfie,” which might mean
nothing–or might indicate an effort was already under way to shift the
blame to him in spite of the incontrovertible fact that the disaster was
directly the result of sloppy scientific procedures and had nothing
whatsoever to do with how the boy had been handled during his fourteen
months of service.
“First,” Waxhill said, “there’s a faction that thinks Alfie must have
come across a book with Stillwater’s picture on the jacket.”
“It can’t be anything that simple.”
“I agree. Though, of course, the about-the-author paragraph on the flap
of his last two books says he lives in Mission Viejo, which would have
given Alfie a good lead.”
Oslett said, “Anybody, seeing a picture of an identical twin he never
knew he had, would be curious enough to look into it–except Alfie.
Whereas an ordinary person has the freedom to pursue a thing like that,
Alfie doesn’t. He’s tightly focused.”
“Aimed like a bullet.”
“Exactly. He broke training here, which required a monumental trauma.
Hell, it’s more than training. That’s a euphemism. It’s indoctrination
, brainwashing–”
“He’s programmed.”
“Yes. Programmed. He’s the next thing to a machine, and just seeing a
photograph of Stillwater wouldn’t send him spinning out of control any
more than the personal computer in your office would start producing
sperm and grow hair on its back just because you scanned a photograph of
Marilyn Monroe onto its hard disk.”
Waxhill laughed softly. “I like the analogy. I think I’ll use it to
change some minds, though of course I’ll credit it to you.”
Oslett was pleased by Waxhill’s approval.
“Excellent bacon,” said Waxhill.
“Yes, isn’t it.”
Clocker just kept eating.
“The second and smaller faction,” Waxhill continued, “proposes a more
exotic–but, at least to me, more credible hypothesis to the effect that
Alfie has a secret ability of which we’re not aware and which he may not
fully understand or control himself.”
“Secret ability?”
“Rudimentary psychic perception perhaps. Very primitive . . .
but strong enough to make a connection between him and Stillwater, draw
them together because of . . . well, because of all they share.”
“Isn’t that a bit far out?”
Waxhill smiled and nodded. “I’ll admit it sounds like something out of
a Star Trek movie–” Oslett cringed and glanced at Clocker, but the big
man’s eyes didn’t shift from the food heaped on his plate.
“–though the whole project smacks of science fiction, doesn’t it?”
Waxhill concluded.
“I guess so,” Oslett conceded.
“The fact is, the genetic engineers have given Alfie some truly
exceptional abilities. Intentionally. So doesn’t it seem possible
they’ve unintentionally, inadvertently given him other superhuman
qualities?”
“Even inhuman qualities,” Clocker said.
“Well, now, you’ve just shown me a more unpleasant way to look at it,”
Waxhill said, regarding Karl Clocker soberly, “and all too possibly a
more accurate view.” Turning to Oslett, “Some psychic link, some
strange mental connection, might have shattered Alfie’s conditioning,
erased his program or caused him to override it.”
“Our boy was in Kansas City, and Stillwater was in southern California,
for God’s sake.”
Waxhill shrugged. “A TV broadcast goes on forever, to the end of the
universe. Beam a laser from Chicago toward the far end of the galaxy,
and that light will get there someday, thousands of years from now,
after Chicago is dust–and it’ll keep on going. So maybe distance is
meaningless when you’re dealing with thought waves, too, or whatever it
was that connected Alfie to this writer.”
Oslett had lost his appetite.
Clocker seemed to have found it and added it to his own.
Pointing to the basket of croissants, Waxhill said, “These are
excellent–and in case you didn’t realize, there are two kinds here,
some plain and some with almond paste inside.”
“Almond croissants are my favorite,” Oslett said, but didn’t reach for
one.
Waxhill said, “The best croissants in the world–”
“–are in Paris,” Oslett interjected, “in a quaint cafe less than a
block off “–the Champs Elysees,” Waxhill finished, surprising Oslett.
“The proprietor, Alfonse–”
“–and his wife, Mirielle–”
” are culinary geniuses and hosts without equal.”