LENG STARED INTO HIS descendant’s glittering eyes. The face remained slightly flushed, and Leng noted a trace of moisture on his brow. This man was a formidable opponent and had to be handled with excessive caution. He quashed a momentary impulse to unshackle the man and allow him to sit by the fire to enjoy a glass of brandy and a cigar with him. No, not yet. He had to be sure the man’s conversion was genuine.
He took a moment to relight his cigar. After a few satisfying puffs, he stood up, went to the cabinet, and poured himself another brandy. He came back and reseated himself, swirled the brandy in the glass, and took a long, lingering sip. Then he set it down, picked up the cigar again, and puffed it back into life. Blowing out a long stream of smoke, he said: “I am pleased to hear your declaration. How did you come to believe?”
“My opinion of myself stands, or falls, on logic. And I find your logic unassailable.”
“It is unassailable.”
Pendergast bowed his head in assent.
“You would no doubt like to be released from those chains.”
“I was hoping. And a brandy would be most welcome on a cold night.”
“It pains me to say—not quite yet. Might you, however, be interested in hearing my plans more specifically?”
“I am indeed. Perhaps I can even make some suggestions, given my familiarity with the next century.”
“I’d appreciate that. The group I propose to assemble will use the machine to go to your time, as I said. We will establish ourselves on a very large piece of land, well fortified, preferably in the American West. We will stockpile food, weapons, and all the necessities of life.”
“I would advise against certain aspects of that plan.”
Leng arched his eyebrows. “Such as?”
“Many bizarre religious cults have sprung up in the twentieth century. They often favor the American West, for all the reasons you might imagine. These cults are usually armed and unwilling to submit to the rule of law—as a result, there have been massacres, large-scale suicides, and shootouts with law enforcement. In my time, the authorities are on the lookout for precisely the kind of well-fortified camp you propose.”
“I see. What would you suggest?”
“That the true purpose of your group, at first, be carefully concealed under the cloak of benevolence. An institute or foundation, devoted to human improvement—what we sometimes call a think tank—would be ideal. Or perhaps even a health resort, a therapeutic retreat for the wealthy. We would need to accumulate vast sums of money in order to accomplish this and cover our tracks—but that would be the least of our problems. Years must pass if we are to do this right … but you strike me as a patient man.”
“I am. And I greatly appreciate the caveats you mention. To continue, then: we will create our, ah, benevolent institute, with your warnings in mind.”
“It must be kept under the radar.”
“Excuse me?”
“I mean to say, quiet.”
“Precisely. There, we will assemble the scientific expertise and equipment necessary to develop a fatal and virulent plague germ, as well as the vaccine against it, and unleash it on the world. Of course, not everyone will succumb—that I understand would be impossible—but the remnant population will be starving, and savage, and no doubt soon kill themselves off anyway.”
“I’d assume so.”
“We will be safe in our enclave, which at this point will assume its true nature. Everything will be orderly. The rules will be strict but fair. There will be no violence, no disobedience to authority. All crime will be dealt with through banishment.”
“What political system will you establish? A democracy?”
“Absolutely not. Democracy is misrule by the stupid, greedy, and corrupt. No, it will be an enlightened oligarchy, or rather a geniocracy, which I’d call the Convocation of Twelve. Twelve wise men and women, who will confer on the important questions of state and move forward with consensus.”
“And how will these twelve sages be chosen?”
“Those individuals most active in civic duty, displaying leadership qualities, and also scoring in the ninety-ninth percentile on a rigorous suite of intelligence quotient tests and measurements. Hence my labeling it a geniocracy—the rule of the excellent.”
“So far what you propose sounds logical. It also evades the shortcomings of those political systems that have emerged since 1880,” Pendergast added with something like approval. “And your economic system?”
“Capitalism, but with the convocation owning and controlling the means of production. As the outside world returns to wilderness and the savage remnants of humans die off, we will expand our borders, laws, and civilization, until we have reoccupied the planet under an intelligent, rational, and compassionate world government.” He paused, then smiled broadly. “What do you think, Nephew?”
“A geniocracy, a convocation … I can see you’ve given much thought to this. I, too, have long wondered why we don’t require politicians to pass an intelligence test. It seems that stupidity is almost a requirement to run for office.”
“Indeed.” Leng gave Pendergast a long, searching look. Then he went on. “And with the added gift of the Arcanum, we’ll live much longer lives. Think of the scientific breakthroughs we could achieve, the music, the mathematics, the art, if we could live eight hundred years instead of eighty. Of course, new births will need to be greatly restricted, but the world will be a better place, in my view, without mewling children underfoot.”
“The word ‘utopia’ comes to mind, Uncle.”
“It is indeed most apt.” Leng hesitated for a long moment. “I’m truly sorry you won’t be among us.”
“You’re rescinding your invitation?”
“I am. You lied about joining me. I only just realized it.”
“I did not lie.”
Leng chuckled. “Of course you did. You are an opaque and devious fellow, but I am more a student of human prevarication than even yourself. Although I’ll admit, Aloysius, you had me convinced you were sincere—briefly. But I heard your lie in the single word you just spoke now: ‘Uncle.’ You couldn’t help yourself: there was the tiniest note of irony, or perhaps distaste. Which, in turn, tells me you have not been convinced. What have you to say to that?”
Pendergast stared back at him, denying nothing.
“I could see I was making inroads. When you stated that my solution is the only workable one, and when you offered suggestions for improvement, I believe you were speaking the truth. Perhaps all you need is a bit of time to reflect, because my logic is unassailable. And my methods, while I freely admit them to be cruel, are equally necessary. You are a cruel man, too. I know what you did to my man Munck—drowning him like a rat in a cage.”
Pendergast remained silent.
“But allowing you the luxury of considering my offer at your leisure would be a waste of my time—not to mention a needless risk. So now the demand is simple: you have one hour to give me access to the portal, or you and all of your friends will die—and most horribly. I am that rarest of souls, Nephew, who can treat the same person either magnanimously or with extreme vindictiveness. Your refusal—which would be a pigheaded and obstinate act, given what you’ve heard and been unable to refute—would cause me extreme vexation. So—if I suddenly find myself with a period of leisure I’d hoped to spend instead by employing your portal—I would be pleased to turn my mind toward a temporary project: watching you and your merry band die in the most excruciating ways imaginable. And, believe me, I don’t lack for imagination—even if I did, Decla could no doubt embroider the details. The breaking wheel; molten gold, General Crassus’s cocktail of choice; scaphism; the blood eagle; and, of course, combing and flaying. You’d be the audience for them all, of course—and I can promise that when, at last, you die yourself, you will be wearing the skin of your friend, the constable.”
He let this image hang in the air for a moment. Then he gestured toward the guards. “Take him back.” He stood up and bowed good-humoredly to Pendergast. “I have an important operation awaiting me downstairs; as it happens, the preparations will take roughly the same amount of time you have to make up your mind.”