After all, why has a novel to be planned? Cannot it grow? Why need it close, as a play doses? Cannot it open out? Instead of standing above his work and controlling it, cannot the novelist throw himself into it and be carried along to some goal that he does not foresee.
—E. M. Forster, Aspects Of The Novel
Shit. Dammit. Fuck it. I completely forgot about this. There’s another copy of De Rerum with Carlton’s name on it. The one he sent to the cops. So there’s evidence of my fraud sitting in police files. It is eighty years ago, but after all, the original was still in the USSAT computer until I wiped it, so Sod’s law says it’s still somewhere in the PD files. What am I to do? I can’t pull out now—I’ve already sent it off to the Nobel Committee. Finished the preface, put my name on the cover, and dispatched it via the Bodyslogs. It’s in the hands of four publishers and a couple of universities. Shit. The spirit of fuck-up is alive and operating in the Universe as usual. Hey, perhaps that’s what levity really is.
I’m panicking. No. Don’t panic. Take a deep breath. Got to go to Police Headquarters and see if it’s still there. Submit a Freedom of Information request. Maybe they destroyed it. After all, it is a long time ago.
§
“So this file from Carlton?” asked Dunphy as they prepared to move out for McTurk’s.
“Lot of damn nonsense about comedy,” said Rogers, preoccupied.
“What?”
“That pussy little robot wasting our time. I should have let them recycle him.”
“Comedy!” snorted Kyle contemptuously. “Like a machine can understand comedy.”
“Did you get the manifests, Kyle?”
“Here’s a list of all the stuff the Bodyslogs shipped on board. Take your pick.”
“Try Rhea,” said Dunphy.
“Why Rhea?”
“We were tracking a consignment of illicit arms that went missing on Rhea.”
Kyle jabbed his finger at something in the manifests. “Wow. Bodyslogs’ log. See there. Rhea. Tons of stuff brought on board. Mainly theatrical equipment.”
“From Rhea?”
“Yeah.”
“Not exactly the home of theater, is it?”
“Katy Wallace is in the Theatrical Division.”
“Interesting that she’s being shot full of drugs about the time someone is turning off Sammy Weiss.”
“Don’t you just hate coincidence?” said Dunphy.
“Pull her in,” said Rogers.
Kyle nodded.
“And I think it’s time to talk to Keppler.”
“You got it,” said Kyle.
Moments later Rogers was looking at a large-screen image of Emil Keppler. To his surprise the man was in a bathrobe. But his sneering tone had not been washed away.
“Ah, Rogers. I was hoping something unpleasant had happened to you.”
“It has.”
“Nothing trivial, I hope.”
“No. It’s not trivial.” He hesitated. Should he alert him?
His trim white beard, his white hair, the whole phony naval look irritated Rogers.
“Let’s see how he reacts,” said Dunphy, encouraging Rogers. “Go for it.”
“We believe that there are large quantities of arms hidden on this ship.”
The needles underneath the screen jumped.
“Whoa,” said Kyle, “that hit him in the heart.” They were monitoring his reactions. Keppler paused two seconds too long before replying.
“Don’t be silly. This is a passenger ship.”
“Yes.”
“A man would lose his license forever for a violation like that.”
“That would be the least of his problems.”
“Why so?”
“In the wake of H9, anyone even remotely implicated would be involved in conspiracy to commit mass murder.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“He’s good,” said Kyle. “He’s got himself back under control.”
“It looks as if someone in authority has made it possible for an extreme group to hide weaponry on board. Perhaps it was a deal made through ignorance, or under duress, or as a result of blackmail, there are many possible defenses…” He paused to let his message sink in. “However, it would be very bad for that person if he were now to compound culpability with noncooperation.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Did I say anything to threaten you?”
Keppler said nothing.
“Nice play,” said Dunphy as if he were watching a tennis match.
“I think I read that as a confirm,” said Kyle.
“It’s good enough for me,” said Rogers. “We’ll pick him up right after McTurk’s.” He clicked the intercom back on.
“Emil Keppler, I am placing you formally and officially under house arrest until further notice. You may not make or receive any calls. You may not leave your quarters, nor are you to entertain any guests. You understand?”
“House arrest? You’re putting me under house arrest?”
He began to laugh.
“You think that’s funny?”
He could hardly speak.
“I think it’s fucking hilarious.”
Rogers broke off the connection.
Josef emerged from the kitchen.
“Stop that,” he said. Keppler was still hysterical.
“I’m under arrest,” said Keppler, and began laughing again. The men filed back into the room staring at him.
“It seems everyone is keen to keep you here. It’s time, however, that we left. Pavel will stay here and look after you. He has instructions to shoot you if you so much as open your mouth before we’re clear. You understand?”
“Oh perfectly.”
“Come along then, gentlemen, it’s time to start your engines.”