The War of Immensities (17 page)

“My medical
condition is absolutely excellent,” he was saying, “thanks to your
skills, Felicity. And you know it.”

It was true.
When fully clothed, there was no trace of his injuries to be seen,
except a slight limp and a scar across his chin. And the suddenly
white hair. And the deep seated sadness that he subtly exuded
despite his bright outlook on life. He was ready for adventure, to
test himself out against the world and she knew she should have
been delighted.

“I was thinking
about the state of agitation that seems to accompany your present
condition. Surely it won’t sit well with piloting a plane.”

“Felicity, I
know what to expect. We’ve been through it, studied it from every
direction. I know my limitations and for a pilot, that’s the ball
game.”

The bag was
packed, he was gathering wallet and watch and glancing in the
mirror with a quick sweep of his hand through his hair. “I’ll drive
you to the airport,” she suddenly proposed.

He picked up
the bag and stopped in front of her, moving toward the doorway
where she stood, blocking his way. “Don’t be silly. I know you’re
up to your neck with patients as usual. There are cabs waiting at
the rank right outside. Don’t worry.”

He even pecked
her cheek. Just like a real husband, except Wendell never kissed
her lightly.

Now she backed
off to let Kevin Wagner through. “You’ll call me and let me know
where you are,” she insisted.

He waved his
mobile phone at her. “Every day. Count on it.”

He walked down
the steps and went out into the early morning haze.

Felicity
remained, leaning on the wall. Her apprehension was immeasurable.
But he was right—she did have work to do. Heaps of it. And all the
more because of this occurrence. She watched Wagner all the way to
the cab—he did not look back or wave. She gave him a bewitching
wrinkle of her nose to make him disappear.

She walked
slowly back toward the main building, as if deeply contemplative,
but in fact she was busy shutting out thoughts and doubts because
this was all as planned, and she knew exactly what she had to do
next. She passed by casualty to assure herself that chaos had not
ensued the moment her back was turned and then took the elevator to
Barbara Crane’s office. It was after six, Barbara and her staff had
sensibly gone home but by prior arrangement, Felicity had a key and
let herself in.

She turned on
the computer and brought up a special file of names, addresses and
telephone numbers that she had prepared in advance for this
moment.

She dialled the
number for Lorna Simmons and got no answer but that was hardly
surprising—it was just after six in Auckland. Christine Rice was
not at home either. Wasn’t she supposed to be married by now? She
would try them again later.

Next, realising
it would be after three in Perth, she called Fairhaven Hospital and
was informed that Mr Joseph Solomon had been discharged a week ago.
There was a number for his brother and she tried that and had her
first success. “No, he isn’t here, Doctor. I put him on the train
to the east coast a couple of hours ago.”

“East coast
where exactly.”

“He said he’d
decide that when he got to Adelaide.”

“When are you
expecting him back?”

“He cleared all
his appointments until late next week.”

“He’s back in
his practice then?”

“Oh yes. Got a
new ground floor office and put ramps all over the place and he’s
doing fine.”

She left a
message for a return call and hung up.

The next
contact number was for a Mr Tierney in Brisbane who was Andromeda
Starlight’s manager. The paging service made the connection to a
number further afield.

“Mr Tierney, I
am trying to contact Miss Starlight...”

“Sorry, love.
Don’t handle her no more.”

“Oh, I see. Can
you give me a number I can call her on?”

“She don’t have
a phone. She don’t live nowhere. She’s run out on me one time too
many and I’ve had it with her.”

“Do you know
where she was going?”

“Don’t know and
don’t care.”

And he hung up.
Felicity smiled to herself as she dialled the final number.

Judy Carrick
remembered her and they could chat freely—it almost came as a
blessed relief. “No, I’m sorry doctor. He’s gone walkabout
again.”

“You mustn’t
worry yourself, Judy. It does seem to be normal for someone in his
condition.”

She was
startled by what she was willing to call normal these days.

“They were
going to lock him up. There were charges laid last time because he
stole their truck but he just got a bond. First offence. Now he’s
pinched another truck and gone again.”

“He’ll be
back—within three days if my information proves correct.”

“There was talk
about putting him in a home.”

“A psychiatric
institution, you mean?”

“Yes. That’s
right. What do you think, doctor?”

“I should think
that to be completely unnecessary, Judy. Apart from these brief
periods of restlessness, he ought to be fine...”

“He isn’t.”

“I’ve spoken to
his local doctor and rehabilitation officer and they said he was
fine.”

“Well he
isn’t.”

“Could you
explain how...”

“He used to be
a good man, hard-working, devoted to his family and thoughtful. Now
he’s just a layabout and doesn’t care about anything.”

“Oh. I see.
Judy, I’d like to look into this matter, if I may. Can I call you
again?”

“If you
want.”

“Thank you.
I’ll be in touch. And in the meanwhile, don’t worry. There are a
number of others with his condition that I know of and none of them
have come to any harm. I should think Brian will be fine.”

“What is his
condition exactly, Doctor?”

“That is what
we are trying to work out. I’ll be in touch. Thank you for your
frankness, Judy. Goodbye.”

Felicity
Campbell leaned back in Barbara Crane’s chair. She had told a lie.
She had said that none of them had come to any harm when in fact
she knew no such thing. But even at this distance, she could sense
Judy Carrick’s stressed condition and knew instinctively that a
palliative was needed if they were to get through this. There was
one more number on her list and she dialled it immediately, without
dispensing with her worried look. She had no idea what time it was
in America and didn’t care.

“Professor
Thyssen please.”

Jami Shastri
sat huddled and blinked like a creature unfamiliar with daylight,
but that, Harley Thyssen knew, was just his imagination. When he
called her and instructed her to report to his office immediately,
she asked him: “Is it day or night out there?”

“It’s an hour
before that great supper I’ll buy you at Kandinsky’s if you tell me
what I want to hear.”

“Harley, I only
ever tell you what you want to hear. It’s faculty policy.”

“Make haste,
girl. I’m finally giving you your freedom.”

“Define
freedom.”

“You go where I
tell you and do what I say. Glen is taking over down there.”

“Oh great. I do
all the footslogging and just when we’re ready to get to the
interesting modelling stuff, you take it away from me.”

“Glen is better
at modelling than you are. But he would never have worked as
diligently gathering the data as you have. Why do I need to explain
the obvious?”

“I thought
somebody said that slavery has been abolished in this country.”

“It’s not
slavery—it’s exploitation of unemployed youth. Come on, we’re in a
hurry here. The way out is down the corridor on your left.”

“I’ve been
living the lifestyle of a cockroach, Harley. Freedom will require a
period of adjustment.”

“Get your
cheeky Hindu ass here now. And bring all the data.”

“All the data
is on the network.”

“I know it is.
But I want you to bring all the stuff you don’t want anyone else to
see as well.”

He gazed at the
window thoughtfully as he hung up. As she trudged across the
campus, she would surely notice the darkness and desertion—it was
way past midnight and Kandinsky’s would be closed.

When she
appeared in his office ten minutes later, he had made her coffee as
a bribe. She walked in with her hands pressed into the pockets of
her jacket, looking like she was just off the set of West Side
Story. One of those pockets, he hoped desperately, contained scraps
of paper on which she had made private notes.

“Black and two
sugars. How sweet of you to remember.”

Thyssen managed
to smile as he gazed across the desk at her dark face. She looked
desperately tired. Thyssen remembered the skinny little girl with
no friends, shy and bewildered by advanced civilisation, as she was
at the time her brilliant intelligence had first caught his
attention. She had come a long way from village life since then,
and seemed to have taken on all the worst that America had to
offer—fast food, substance abuse, alienation, and with no defence
except a fierce line of aggressive retorts.

Now, her
somewhat blotchy colouring plainly indicated the diet of fast food
she had lived on throughout her manic hibernation in his basement.
She might have been hopelessly insecure but she was the best
student he had ever produced and the way she bluffed and blustered
her way through life suggested that she had little grasp on the
extent of her own brilliance.

“What have you
got for me?” he asked as he sat down.

“It’s all
there,” she said, gesturing toward his computer terminal.

“No it isn’t. A
prediction of the next occurrence of the Shastri Effect isn’t to be
found there anywhere.”

She pouted and
threw a shrug at him. “Insufficient data to make any such
prediction. Christ, Harley, there have only been three
instances.”

Thyssen nodded.
He offered her a cigarette and they both lit up in bland defiance
of departmental regulations. But at this time of night all of the
departmental toadies had gone home. As had anyone else with any
respect for their own wellbeing.

“Naturally. Now
make a guess.”

“I’m a well
trained scientist who would never make such a conjectural
leap.”

“Assume I have
thrown you to the floor and twisted your arm up your back.”

“Somewhere
about ten thousand miles northwest of here, next week maybe.”

“My data says
Monday,” Thyssen smiled.

That threw her.
She gave the sort of frown that he liked best—the moment when the
outstanding protege realises that the master is still the
master.

Her eyes
narrowed. “You can’t know that?”

“No. But I can
guess it.”

“How?”

“I’m the boss.
You have to explain your guess first.”

From her
pocket, she produced the scrap of paper he had been hoping for.
“There is a sequence developing of some kind,” she said, rotating
the tightly folded sheet until it was right way up. “For instance,
Ruapehu was 6.3 on the scale, Gran Canaria was 6.5, Terra de Fuego
was 6.7, so we could possibly assume 6.9 this time.”

“Let’s assume.
What else?”

“Location is
impossible. There is no recognisable relationship between the
angles or the distances associated with the three points. All we
have is an irregular triangle.”

“Which is
meaningless.”

“True. However,
we do have the sequencing relationship Southern Hemisphere,
Northern, then Southern again so that possibly narrows us down to
the Northern Hemisphere this time.”

“The situation
improves immeasurably.”

“And the fact
that all of the incidents occurred on or near islands located in
the largest oceans, respectively, the South Pacific, North Atlantic
and Southern Oceans, which suggests the North Pacific Ocean this
time.”

Thyssen gave
out a snort which might have been laughter. “Very iffy.”

“I know, but
its the best we can do until we have a few more instances and Glen
can develop the models.”

“Okay, and
time?”

He was toying
with her, and she hated it. He had said Monday. None of the numbers
she had conjured could possibly add up to that. With a sigh of
defeat, she continued. “The dates have a decreasing pattern. 23rd
of June, 28th of September, 23rd of December. Periods of 97 days
and 86 days. If the rate of decrease had been maintained, it would
have been 75 days, Saturday March 8th, which was yesterday. The
average is 91.5 days which is 25th of March. However, the first
knowable date is the minimum, 86 days again, which is ten days from
now.”

“Very
good.”

“But you said
tomorrow.”

“I did.”

“It’s not
likely. Two of the three incidents already happened on a Monday.
The third was a Wednesday. Another occurrence of a Monday is
statistically improbable.”

“Let’s steer
clear of superstition, shall we? It will be Monday.”

Jami grinned.
Harley Thyssen did not usually commit himself to anything. If he
proved to be wrong, her delight would be immeasurable.

“Okay. Your
turn.”

“Our doctor in
New Zealand, the delightful Mrs Campbell, was very thorough. On
both prior occasions, her patient became agitated for thirty-three
hours and then calmed at the moment of the incident.”

“Doesn’t prove
much.”

“No. But the
lemmings walked off the cliffs of the Canaries again thirty-four
hours before Terra de Fuego.”

“Better.”

“And Doctor
Campbell cites two instances each regarding two other patients—the
one that escaped from the hospital in Perth twice and the chap who
keeps stealing trucks in Melbourne. All between thirty and
thirty-six hours in advance of an incident.”

“It does become
interesting.”

“Indeed, and
guess what?”