Judy rose from her seat. “You’ve got some urgent messages,” she said, handing Corrigan a couple of slips. “One from Endelmyer, one from Pinder. They both want you to call back straightaway.” Corrigan nodded and took them.
“Would you mind answering a few questions, Ms. Essell?” Yeen asked Lilly, his tone not really leaving a lot in the way of options.
“Well . . . I guess not.” Lilly met Corrigan’s gaze as she got up, but Yeen had left them no opportunity for agreeing on details.
“I’ll see you later,” was all that Corrigan could say. Just like in the books. Somebody must have fed the system detective stories, he reflected as he watched the two of them follow Judy away around a corner.
A sandy-haired, wide-browed, bearded figure in a black, V-neck sweater with a white-stripe diagonal design approached from the other direction and caused him to turn. It was Barry Neinst. He looked solemn, but although it was he who had come to see Corrigan, he hesitated longer than would have been natural, letting Corrigan set the tone of what was appropriate by speaking or acting first. As had been the case with Judy, Corrigan could detect nothing from outward appearances that told him if he was talking to an animation or a surrogate. It was only their subtle differences in manner that set them apart. Corrigan waited curiously, deliberately refraining from offering any cue. Finally, the system capitulated, and Barry said:
“I don’t know what to make of it—about Tom. It’s just . . . too terrible. I mean, what do you say? . . .”
“What can you say?” Corrigan answered. “It’s been a lousy morning. Life goes on. Tomorrow might be better.” Barry’s eyes widened into circles of confused surprise behind his spectacles. In some half-amused, cynical way, Corrigan enjoyed being no help at all, watching the system dither and flounder.
“I guess you’re right,” Barry said. In a matter of seconds the about-face was complete. Yet such shallowness had been there all the time in the animations that had been all around him since yesterday, Corrigan reminded himself. So adept was the human mind at the art of seeing what it expected to see. “There’s nothing we can say that’ll change anything, eh?” Barry went on. Already the system was trying out the new line, fishing for confirmation that it had got it right.
Corrigan obliged. “Not a thing.” His eyes strayed down to the two slips of paper in his hand. The project—this unreal version of it, anyway—was no longer of any interest, and neither, therefore, were the concerns of unreal Pinders and unreal Endelmyers. He wondered what way of dealing with them would entail the least distraction from the things that did matter. Perhaps simply to ignore them.
“Let’s just hope he hasn’t started too much of a craze,” Barry said.
Corrigan looked up, only half hearing. “Who?”
“Tom.”
“What about him?”
“All the others.”
“Other what?”
“Haven’t you seen the news this morning?”
Corrigan’s brow creased. “No, I haven’t. What’s happened?”
“Oh. Then you don’t know!” Barry moistened his lips and moved a step closer. “Since it was on the news last night, more people have been driving their cars into oncoming traffic. It’s as if a lot of people out there suddenly discovered a new way of solving their problems that they hadn’t thought of before. When I was driving in, the count was up to fifteen. The whole city’s going crazy. People are afraid to go out.”
Corrigan stared at him in astonishment. First the shootings that had been breaking out since the incident at the airport. Now this. He thought back to the way Pinder and the others had behaved yesterday and the day before, the plasticity of Meechum, Borth, the CLC Board. . . . An instinct told Corrigan that there was some kind of pattern behind it, connecting them all. But before he could give the matter any further thought, the phone on Judy’s desk rang to announce a voice call.
“Excuse me.” Corrigan picked up the handset. “Yes?”
A man’s voice said, “Is there a Ms. Klein there, please?”
“She’s away from her desk at the moment, I’m afraid.”