Corrupting Dr. Nice (8 page)

Halam found a table and ordered some Galilean wine. The boy's version of Terraplane Blues--he had never seen a Hudson, and could not imagine the Mississippi delta--was weirdly skewed by the whine of Chasidic temple music. But it had a certain soulful originality. Halam made a note to remind himself to get the kid down on disk. A demo might lead to something.

EIGHT: DANCING
IN JERUSALEM

The hotel casino was packed. Palestinian servants moved swiftly between the tables, bringing chips, setting up drinks, extending credit. Women in extravagant hair styles and low cut gowns leaned over tables to exchange fragrant whispers with men in suits.

Owen did not understand why people traveled two thousand years into the past in order to do something they could do in Atlantic City. But gambling he grasped. It was an expression of biological élan, a fundamental quality of all life, the opposite of self-preservation yet genetically linked to it. A bet was a test of the statistical nature of reality. The longer the odds, the more the chance of losing, of course. But life was long odds, anyway. As Wilma could attest, most species in history lost, and so in the end did all individuals. A gaming table was only a metaphor for that evolutionary bet. Some people, without even knowing it, were drawn to try to recoup in the casino what the DNA in each of their cells knew they would lose outside of it. If you won, you could feel you had beaten time's arrow back a few ticks of the clock.

But in the end nobody ever beat the house.

He searched for Genevieve and found her and her father playing cards, at one of the pavilion tables adjoining the dance floor, outside the casino.

“Good evening, Mr. Faison.”

“Good evening--Owen, is it?”

“That’s right, sir. May I join you?”

“Certainly. Champagne?"

=It's probably drugged,= Bill said.

"Thank you."

"Would you like to join us in some three-handed bridge?" Gen asked.

=Right. And get pauperized?=

"No, sir, thank you, I don't gamble." He was going to have to do something about Bill. He had a strategy which sometimes worked. "Let me get a glass for myself, and another bottle of champagne," he said. On the way to the bar he spoke to the AIdvisor. "Look, Bill, you remember that hotel employee with the oatmeal? Why do you think he was so intent on getting into our bedroom? Do you suppose he might be after Wilma?"

=He ran away as soon as he saw her.=

"Very conveniently, I might add. Before we could ask him any questions."

=You're right. We should probably hide.=

"No. I want you to think about what he might be planning. The Saltimbanque Corporation's in heavy competition with Mother's conglomerate for the entertainment dollar. What could be his connection to them? Have a report ready for me by tomorrow morning."

=Will do.=

That ought to occupy Bill for the evening--at least reduce the frequency of his interruptions. Of course, if the ruse worked the way it had in the past, Owen would have to pay the price in Bill's increased suspicions for the remainder of his hotel visit.

When he got back to the table August said, "Well, here's your opportunity. My daughter here wants to dance. Despite your unfortunate dance history, you could do us both a very big favor by escorting her tonight."

"It would be my pleasure, sir."

#

The palace hotel had two main wings, surrounded by gardens. Inside the portico between the wings a pavilion and dance floor had been set up. Under soft area lights historicals tended bar. Beyond the portico couples strolled down paths through the groves and fountains, along reflecting canals lined with exotic plants, and above on the western wall, looking over the valley and the orchards. The throb of dance music stirred the dust of the tombs below the city. Above, in a violet sky of surpassing lucidity, the stars were coming out, and in the west Venus hung like a beacon above Mercury, her pale reflection.

The bass played figures on Owen's endocrine system. His chest tingled with the rhythm, and he watched the women in 21st century knockoffs of Biblical gowns sway to the music. Too much thigh and bosom for authentic clothing, but they reveled in this opportunity to dress in a way not condoned by the strait-laced rules of 2062. They were in a totally disposable world, and the rush of freedom was written in their flushed faces. Owen guided Gen to a secluded spot just inside the portico. The champagne he'd already drunk had left him delightfully elevated, and he went to the bar to refill their glasses.

The bartender, a young historical, looked miserably uncomfortable in his starched white jacket. Sweat glistened on his face. Owen felt a moment's curiosity--who was this man? What might he have been in authentic history? Owen's habitual dismay at the exploitation of the historicals swept over him. He returned to Gen, beside the dance floor.

"A thousand dinari for your thoughts," Gen said.

"Actually, I was thinking--how beautiful you look."

"You've just spent two years in the Cretaceous."

Owen smiled. "That has nothing to do with it."

"Dr. Nice prefers cold-blooded animals."

"Dinosaurs aren't cold-blooded."

"Some women are."

He sipped champagne. "I wouldn't know about that."

"But you're a scientist. You're prepared to find out."

He set down his drink, took her hand. "Let's dance."

The band was starting up a fractal quadrille. The couples formed two diamond patterns across the open flagstones. Owen remembered the figure from his class; he had never been any good at it. But something different was at work tonight. He seemed to understand the rhythm of the changes for the first time. What had seemed an arbitrary set of transformations was now the most natural development in the world. Maybe it was Gen's eyes. He twirled her in his arms, he stepped once, twice, forward and back; they glided, joined, separated and rejoined.

His mind whirled, the throb of the bass in his heart. He was graceful.

"You dance well for a dinosaur hunter," she said.

"I'm not a hunter."

"Not a hunter, professor? I think you are."

"Oh, no. Actually, I'm investigating sauropod heterochrony."

"Ah, heterochrony." She twirled away from him, showing him a lethal length of calf, then back. "What's heterochrony?"

"Heterochrony comprises phylogenetic changes in the expression rate of an organism's particular features."

"I see." The couples slid into two lines. The line of women retreated, curtseyed. Owen's line of men bowed. They came forward and joined hands. In pairs, they began to circle the floor.

"Despite the fact that it's been proven for years that all basal sauropods, including Apatosaurus megacephalos, have fibrolamellar primary bone--just like us--still, the alteration of somatic growth relative to maturation has remained a fundamental question."

"A real puzzler."

"For instance, is their sexual maturity in synch with physical maturity?"

"A question I have pondered for many years." Gen kept her eyes forward.

Owen was entranced by her clean profile. "I mean," he said, "just because they're grown up doesn't mean they're ready for sex."

"A truth universally acknowledged."

"It's a vital determinant of reproductive policies."

"I find honesty is the best policy." Gen stepped forward, measured pace by pace, delicately and precisely. Her toenails were painted red.

Owen felt exhilarated. The dance came so naturally, and he felt eloquent. "Plus, do they care for their young as we do?"

"Better, I hope."

"Fibrolamellar primary bone in basal sauropods usually indicates elevated growth rates. They get big fast. Ontogenetic studies taken before the advent of time travel indicated proportionately higher growth rates among juvenile individuals. The young grow faster than the old."

"And suffer for it, I'm sure."

Were the sauropoda R- or K-reproductive strategists? I intend to prove that the speed at which they attain maturity is dependent on their environment. A coddled specimen will stay an adolescent a lot longer than one exposed to a harsh struggle for survival."

"Which explains a lot, doesn't it?"

"With the proper care, diet and ready availability of food, I'm sure Wilma will grow more slowly than they think."

"Some individuals never grow up." Gen looked up at him, smiling. Her eyes were the most remarkable shade of violet. The quadrille ended, the couples laughed and leaned together, and the band began a slow jazz tune. Feeling flushed, Owen took Gen in his arms.

He had never realized before what a beautiful custom dancing was. Men and women who not long before had been separate, now held each other in their arms. The embrace was a way station of intimacy. Each, afraid but willing, risked exposure. Genevieve let him hold her, and he kept a formal space between them, but as they turned he felt her hair brush his cheek.

Did she really like him, or was her teasing pure mockery? Owen had no aptitude for women. He dreaded that his mother was right, that anyone who liked him was only interested in the fifth largest private fortune in North America.

But Genevieve was different. She made no attempt to put him at ease, but when he blathered on about dinosaurs she pretended not to notice how absurd he was. Her warm hand on his shoulder seemed connected right to his racing heart.

His mind ran ahead. After the dance they would walk beneath fragrant olive trees, warm breeze laden with the scent of spices, the old moon like a ruin in the sky. He'd lean close in the night, her breath fragrant on his cheek, and describe for her the brilliant blue and gold of the archaeopteryx. She'd laugh. He'd take her in his arms. Her lips would part . . .

The song ended. The dancers applauded, and Gen whirled away, as if she hadn't noticed he wanted to kiss her. He felt his face flush. He followed her to one of the paths. "Ms. Faison, I didn't mean--"

In the shadows beneath an olive tree, she turned to him. "Don't kid me, Owen. You men are only after one thing."

Owen panicked. "I don't--"

"All you want is a wedding ring. A woman who doesn't drag you into bed before you trick her to the altar is asking for trouble. You marry us--and the next thing we know you've stayed with us forever. It's tragic."

"But I'm different!" Owen protested. "I don't want to marry you."

"You say that now. But you'll be singing a different tune in the morning, Dr. Nice."

"I'm afraid I don't follow you."

"Just hold onto my hand. I'll lead."

Dizzied by her zig-zag conversation, intoxicated by her perfume, he let himself be led by her along a reflecting pool. "Besides," she said, "how do I know you're who you say your are? You could be a twanked impostor posing as Dr. Owen Vannice, the wealthy paleontologist. How do I know you even have a dinosaur?"

"Meet me for breakfast. I'll take you down to see her."

"Perhaps," Gen said quietly. "Look--" She pointed at the sky. "There's Venus. Isn't it beautiful? It looks exactly the same as it does back home." She locked her arm in Owen's and they followed the path in a wide circle until they found themselves back at the pavilion, and August's table.

"A beautiful evening," August said. "Have you been enjoying yourselves?"

"Owen has been telling me about his life of crime."

"You've lived a life of crime?"

"Your daughter seems to think so. I confess her definition seems a little odd to me."

Gen looked him in the eyes, then turned to her father. "But what does a life of crime amount to today? Just a few lines on his resumé. Owen might as well have been an honest man his entire life. Father, do you think you could take me to that club we heard about?"

"I'm feeling a little tired, dear. I want to check on Pharaoh in the kennel early tomorrow."

"But the night is so beautiful."

"Perhaps Owen here would consider taking you."

"Owen, the master criminal? Would you? I've heard there's wonderful music there."

=Forget it,= Bill whispered. =How many risks are you going to take in one night? Do you think your father purchased me for nothing?=

"You won't stay too late?" August said.

"We'll be careful," Gen replied.

=This city place is rife with hostile historicals,= an edge of hysteria crept into Bill's voice. =Do you think they admire us? That hotel guy is plotting to kill you. What do you know about this crazy dame? You're a scientist, not a dancer!=

"We'll be very careful," Owen said.

#

Owen and Gen passed through hotel security into the streets of the upper city. It was full night, perfumed by flowers and a hot desert wind. Away from the hotel, this Jerusalem resembled that of the unburned universes, with differences. Instead of oil lamps in the windows, he saw battery lamps. A restaurant displayed its name in blue neon. Here and there the roar of a portable air conditioner disturbed the night. From rooftop sleeping terraces came the gabble of Aramaic on portable radios.

Historicals, seeing they were from the hotel, followed them. "Mister, mister, you want the video disk? Got the authentic miracle from Egypt! Got the John the Baptist execute! You buy!"

Owen flung a handful of coins at them and he and Gen broke away down toward the palaces of the high priests. He looked over his shoulder to see the beggars hurrying back to the hotel to await other tourists. From the south wall of the city they looked out at the Valley of Hinnom, over the glare of lights from Holy Land amusement park, where young historicals cruised for girls and tourists rode Moses's Snake and the Deluge Waterslide. Beyond, under the moon, fields and olive orchards spread to the south. A flock of sleeping sheep lay scattered across the hill opposite like dirty white ottomans. But any sound they might make was drowned out by the roar of tinny music from the park.

Afraid to look at her, but feeling bold, Owen tried to explain the thicket of his emotions. "Genevieve, I know I’ve only known you a day, but there’s something that I need to say to you.”

"You're drunk, Owen."

"Not so much that I don't know what I feel. I--"

She put her hand on his lips. "Come on! While we stand here there are people in this city having fun."

Owen let her lead him away past the amphitheater and into the Second Quarter. She seemed to know where she was going. A neon sign above the entrance to the club read "Adam's Garden."

The club was a Hellenized residence turned into a restaurant. Walls between the inside rooms and the central courtyard had been ripped out, and a low stage had been set up in place of a fountain in the middle. Though the club was electrified, the lighting was still provided by smoking oil lamps on iron stands. The place was crowded with historicals, Romans, Syrians, Greeks, a scattering of tourists from the future. A four piece band of historicals on electrified lute, pipe, bass and harmonica played some queer variation of twentieth century blues. Just as Gen and Owen were being served their drinks, the teen-aged historical playing the harmonica, locks greased into a pompadour, wearing a hideous polyester jumpsuit, stepped to a microphone and began to sing,