Arcadia (17 page)

‘Were there?’ Hanslip asked.

‘Ah, no. There weren’t.’

‘What a surprise.’

‘What there was, however, was an article entitled “The Devil’s Handwriting”, published in 1959. It’s about an ancient manuscript, supposedly medieval although the author, this man Lytten, decided it was a fake. The story is that a man named Ludovico Spoletano summoned the devil and asked him to respond, in writing, to a question. The pen was taken by “an invisible power which suspended it in air”.’

Hanslip gazed balefully at him, so Chang hurried on before his patience was exhausted. ‘This manuscript was impossible to read, hence the attribution. Various people suggested that it was an Old Iberic script.’

‘Mr Chang?’ Hanslip prompted. ‘You are beginning to weary me.’

‘The point is that there’s an illustration.’

Chang fumbled in the folder he was gripping tightly in his hand, pulled out a few sheets and handed them nervously to Hanslip, who glanced at them, then bowed his head and studied them much more closely.

‘How fascinating,’ Hanslip said softly when he finished.

‘May I?’ Jack interrupted.

Hanslip handed over the papers. ‘The script,’ he explained. ‘You may not recognise it, but it is three lines of mathematics in the Tsou notation.’

‘What’s that?’

‘A method of compressing information, not unlike the way Chinese characters managed to squeeze multi-syllabic words into a couple of strokes. Each symbol is made up of many different elements, and can be unbundled to produce more orthodox notation.’

‘That’s interesting.’

‘The point that Mr Chang is trying to make, I am sure, is that Tsou was only developed sixty years ago. The article in which this illustration was published supposedly dates back more than two hundred.’ Hanslip peered at Chang. ‘Is that correct?’

‘Yes. The reference to Angela appeared in 1960; the article including the Tsou notation was published in 1959.’

‘Supposedly,’ Hanslip added.

‘So what does that mean?’ Jack asked.

‘Well, that is a very good question. What indeed? Either this is genuinely old, or it is an elaborate hoax designed to make us think it is. Another attempt to throw us off the scent, so to speak.’

‘Now I think,’ Chang continued earnestly, ‘that it would surely be better if I concentrated on this, rather than going after Angela Meerson.’

Hanslip peered enquiringly. ‘Go on.’

‘The text says the complete manuscript is in the author’s possession. Henry Lytten, that is. I have discovered that his papers are supposed to be in the National Depository. The obvious thing would be to go and look first of all. Genuine or fake, if this document is there you will be able to recover the data you have lost, and finding Angela Meerson won’t be so important.’

‘Oh, I see! You are trying to disobey my orders,’ Hanslip said theatrically. ‘No chance of that, I’m afraid. I have no doubt that if I let you out, then you would abscond back to the renegades and
I’d never see you or the data ever again, even if it exists. Sorry, Mr Chang. You are insufficiently trustworthy for such a task. Mr More here can follow your very useful lead. Your orders stand. Please don’t think I’m not appreciative.’

‘But what am I meant to do?’

‘You will see if you can find Angela, then get her to come back.’

‘How can she do that? She doesn’t have a machine …’

Hanslip peered at him. ‘When you have known her for as long as I have,’ he said, ‘you will know never, ever, to underestimate her. It will be your only route back as well, so you can think of it as an incentive to do as you’re told. Besides, I have given you a message to relay to her.’

‘What is it?’

‘It will come back to you if you meet her.’

*

Apart from the lab technicians, Jack was the only person to see Chang off when he was helped – rather pale and anxious, but calm because of the sedatives that had been poured in to stop him causing trouble – into the sphere of electricity. He had wished the strange, now rather pathetic man luck. He would, surely, need it.

‘I still don’t know how I’m meant to do this,’ he said as he sat in what they all hoped was period costume in the waiting room next door.

‘Find Angela Meerson, if she is to be found,’ Jack said. ‘Get her to return, if it is possible. Or let us know somehow.’

Chang seemed doubtful. ‘I suppose I could take out an advert in a newspaper that will survive. But that is assuming that she’s right about where I’m going. Make sure you look.’

‘Why did Hanslip get so annoyed by your idea? I thought he’d be pleased she might have been found.’

‘He thinks I’m undermining him. If the standard theory is correct, I am about to go to an alternative universe, and there can be no communication between us and it except by using the machine.
If Angela is correct, then the machine may simply move us to a different moment of the same universe. Time travel, in fact. It’s what they were fighting about. He is desperate for Angela to be wrong. If I find her and manage to tell you about it, that means she is right.’

‘I know you scientists get worked up about such things, but …’

‘It’s not abstract,’ Chang said. ‘Hanslip sees himself as a sort of conquistador, finding new worlds to colonise. But if Angela is correct, then the machine would be too dangerous to use, as it would be impossible to control its effects. So Hanslip’s dreams of power and glory would have to be abandoned, or at least they would become prohibitively expensive. More to the point, no one would invest in it. That was Angela’s argument, and Hanslip evidently thought I was taking her side.’

‘Were you?’

‘No. I’m nowhere near good enough to have any opinion.’

‘You seem remarkably relaxed about all this, if I may say so.’

Chang smiled briefly as the technician approached.

‘Ready for you, sir,’ he said.

‘That’s the first time anyone here has ever called me sir,’ Chang said in a weak voice. ‘That’s really worrying.’

*

Jack reported personally to Hanslip that wherever Chang now was, he wasn’t in the sphere.

Hanslip ignored him until he had finished the report he was reading. ‘Thank you, Mr More.’

‘May I ask what you think his chances of success are?’

Hanslip frowned in puzzlement. ‘None whatsoever,’ he said.

‘So why send him?’

‘What business is that of yours?’

‘It would help to know what exactly I am doing, and why. At the moment I am very confused.’

‘Oh, very well. Mr Chang’s conclusions are undoubtedly as faked as Angela’s disappearance. The way he presented them is proof of that.’

‘How so?’

‘Firstly he made an immensely difficult search through a vast number of records with no experience of how to do it, and produced a result within a few hours, which is extraordinary to the point of being suspicious. Secondly, he claimed to have found a trace of Angela when, in fact, nearly two centuries of scientific work has established that it is impossible. Thirdly, when I said I planned to send him in the machine, he immediately produced yet another piece of evidence designed to make that unnecessary. Angela may have hidden the data amongst old historical documents. You will check, but I am certain that she will be found hiding out amongst the renegades. That’s why your main task will be to seek out her daughter.’

‘Her what?’ Jack asked in genuine astonishment.

‘The procedure to enhance her abilities produced a child as a by-product. A daughter, to be precise, who now goes under the name of Emily Strang. She is highly intelligent as well but proved herself to be unsuited for membership of the elite. She was assigned to the appropriate level of education for her considerable potential, but walked out at the age of fifteen after a long period of being uncooperative and disruptive. Even heavy doses of drugs made no difference to her attitude and eventually the system washed its hands of her. She became a renegade and now lives in a Retreat in the south.’

‘Was there some relationship with Angela?’

‘Not that I know of. Angela knows she exists, but the procedure diverted all her affective abilities onto her work. She doesn’t feel anything for the girl. Or she didn’t. It may be that recent difficulties unbalanced her. If so, there is a possibility that she formed a link between her work and her daughter. At least, that’s what the psychiatrists tell me; I’ve been consulting our in-house specialists. They think that there is a good chance
you will find her by going through the child.’

‘What about that document with the Tsou notation that Chang produced?’

‘It is a very small extract of her work,’ Hanslip said.

‘So surely finding the rest should be our main priority?’

‘I suspect that if you find one, you will find the other. Again, the daughter is the key. She is what is termed a historian. They dabble in the occult, these renegades, as I am sure you are aware; they all have some pointless obsession to which they attribute mystical importance. Emily Strang’s is the study of the past. Now, do you not think it a remarkable coincidence that this document is supposed to be hidden in the National Depository, when she is one of the few people who might be able to find it? I do not believe in coincidences, Mr More.’

Hanslip waved a hand to dismiss him. ‘Find out. If the daughter knows anything, have her arrested and brought here.’

Jack stood up to leave.

‘Here,’ Hanslip added. ‘New documentation for you. Until you are done, you are now a scientist, first class. The identity gives you full privileges. You may go anywhere, talk to anyone, without hindrance. You have access to our central funding. You need answer to no one except superiors in rank, and there aren’t many of those.’

Jack looked carefully at the documents Hanslip gave him, the qualifications, the educational profile, the psychometric test results, all showing that he was a very impressive character.

‘These look genuine.’

‘That’s because they are. Like most organisations, we keep a few ghosts on the payroll.’

Jack stood up. ‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘Chang made me concerned, just before he was transmitted.’

‘Well?’

‘He wasn’t worried. He was about to be put in an untested machine and potentially vaporised and he wasn’t worried.’

‘He was drugged, presumably.’

‘Not that much. I think he knew it worked. Has it been used before?’

‘Not with people.’

‘Are you sure?’

Hanslip considered this remark for some time. ‘I will investigate while you are away. Now, there is one other thing you should know. I have broken off negotiations with Oldmanter, as it was not possible to reach a suitable agreement at the moment. It is quite possible that he will attempt to obtain the technology by other means.’

‘Does he know what has happened here?’

‘No. I do not wish him to find out, either. It could easily be made to look bad.’

‘Yes. It could.’

‘No one must know what you are doing when you leave. Should things become unpleasant, then possession of this technology will be our main defence. Be careful who you talk to and what you say, and do not fail. Is that understood?’

17

In the dark years that followed his meeting with Callan Perelson and the young student on the streets of Ossenfud, Pamarchon often thought back to that day, almost the last time when he had felt carefree and safe. Within three months he had become a fugitive, hunted for the murder of his own uncle.

From being a source of pride, his name became a death sentence, and he had to become a wanderer, a person of no name. He had travelled in search of safety, and had found it, but never any peace. His fall weighed heavily on him. Bit by bit others, all outcasts, men and women with grievances, or those who could not settle, came to join him. All societies produce their injustices, and those who will not accept those injustices. So around Pamarchon there gathered the men forced into crime, the young and wild, the bold and adventurous, the women who yearned for something different, though they rarely knew what.

They could not live among other men, so they travelled in bands, living out in the forests, occupying part of the vast emptiness which covered the landscape. Few ever noticed them and those who did could not find them. Many no longer wanted to hide and be fearful, or to have to move at regular intervals. Others wished to keep on moving for ever.

Pamarchon became their leader because he understood both, and sympathised with both, although he pondered how long that uneasy state could continue. He could settle their disputes, persuade them to stay together and learn how to help each other. They relied on him, and he came to rely on them as well. With such people he found a comradeship he had never discovered in his days of wealth and ease. Eventually their wanderings brought
them back almost to where he had started his long journey, to the place of his fall. They settled in the forests to the south of Willdon, pitching camp, clearing spaces, setting up the areas for cooking, sending out scouts to guard and hunters to find food. Then, as was their custom, they blended into the trees and waited, to see if their arrival had been noticed. No one came. It was as if they were not there. They began to relax and to live their lives once more.

Pamarchon was busy in those first days, supervising the setting of the camps, making sure everyone was provided for, discussing the best places for guards, making rotas of duties. Then, one fine morning, he realised he had nothing left to do. He could leave the camp to Antros, his closest friend, and wander off by himself to think and consider.

It was always his delight and his greatest pleasure to walk through the great trees, listening to the never-ending song of the birds. He knew he was hiding his intentions even from himself, though. He was going back to Willdon. He would go to the Shrine of Esilio and leave a prayer. He would go to the circle and hope that a dream would come to him which would clarify everything and that he would know, finally, what to do.

It took several hours, as he went by a circuitous route, but eventually he came to the clearing, surrounded by stones overgrown with plants all in flower. It was deserted. So he stood up and stepped over the stone surrounds and went up to the monument. He knew that you had to trace your fingers over the scratching on the side as you made your wish. ‘Grant us all peace and safety, and do not let ill come from my desires,’ he said quietly as he bent over and performed the simple ritual. ‘You know what I am, and what I have done, and not done. Grant me what I deserve, whatever that might be. Come and help me in my hour of need.’