worldwide. But much to his horror he noticed a ghastly typo—quite unusual in Wynnet’s letters. He scrolled down to the affected line, highlighted the word heart and replaced it (by voice instruction) with mind.
The sentence then read: …the fate of our planet lies in the heart of Novosibirsk…!
The computer had not responded to Wynnet’s shaken voice, which, if he had tried again, would have been markedly more shaken. So he decided (after vowing to sell his stock in the voice mail company) to try his hand at the archaic art of typing.
After consulting the manual to rediscover how to unearth the simulated keyboard mat, Wynnet highlighted that nasty word again, and very carefully (looking only at the mat) entered the letters M-I-N-D. But upon looking up he noticed that the whole sentence has been rearranged, edited, and provided with new terms. It now read:
Keep in mind, as I do, that the fate of ourselves lies in the heart of Novosibirsk, and the removal of all elements of being that are not ancient and familiar.
Wynnet jumped up, slapped his cheek, and hollered. The world did not change.
But the computer recorded this latest sonic input. It read:
Ahhhhhhhhwwwwwrrrrh!
Wynnet now stood immobile, as if vanquished, all expression drained from his hitherto predictable face. Such emotion Wynnet hadn’t felt for decades, and he quietly gathered his logic to prepare for the next round of battle: he would not be defeated by a defective lump of machinery. And he would not let this episode interfere with his efforts to restore Novosibirsk back to its flawless intellectual sanctity. Ready now to voice a continuation of his important letter, Wynnet cleared his throat, stepped forward, and—
A letter from a faraway land can make sense only to one who is faraway in his heart.
“Scoundrel! Who told you to register that?”
No response.
“Now listen. Delete last line and continue letter as follows:”
It is the mind of Novosibirsk, and the mind only, that sustains the most ornate intellectual quacks of this or any century…
Seconds later, Wynnet’s hitherto favorite voice-command computer lay in an unrecognizable heap on the floor. He had smashed it first with a log from the hearth, and then with the blunt end of the poker. But it was not enough for him to see it jumbled there: soon random logic boards, memory chips, and bits of circuit and chassis were flying about the room, propelled first by Wynnet’s enraged hands, and then by the wits of Nura, who sat on the mantel feeling quite pleased and satisfied with herself.
18.
As little Kolya stepped gently around the room, holding on to armchairs and table tops, he often fell sideways or backwards into a guarding hand, a hand that was not Elsa’s.
Nor was it Omar’s. The hand that caught Kolya was invisible; it belonged to Rimpon. Rimpon patted Kolya along, lifting him over little bumps in the rug and rolling toys out of harm’s way. Kolya, of course, felt no extraordinary presence, and came to expect the slight tugs and pulls as naturally as if every child had known them. Elsa felt that Kolya was somehow being protected, but she attributed it to fate: something about her son spoke of a lighted and distinguished future, so much that she did not allow herself to think about it very long, lest she become fearful and overly protective. Omar saw Kolya’s first steps as markers for a rough topography; he imagined the plains and mountain ranges Kolya delineated, and was reminded of where Kolya had been born.
Now the others in Novosibirsk had caught wind of this latest arrival of the past year, but most had stuck to their entrenched work routines. Only Wynnet had made an attempt to address the burning question (What use was there for a child, and its parents, in Novosibirsk?), an effort that had brought little reward.
But one day, it was inevitable, Todd ran out of baby oil, and could not bear the thought of little wrinkles and scaly skin compromising his blue-blood appearance. So he was reduced to begging from “the child-rearing couple” for a product that was not always available at the town depot.
As he raised his hand to knock, the door simply opened, and Todd was met by Kolya.
“Excuse me,” Todd said, politely and correctly disregarding the toddler. “Is anyone home?” he commanded.
Kolya mumbled earnestly, and carried on with his playing. Soon, however, Elsa appeared.
“Hello?”
“Yes. I’m Todd Darnet from a couple of doors down the—”
“Yes. We’ve met.”
“Oh, that’s right, isn’t it? I wonder if by any chance you should have some baby oil that I could borrow.”
“Of course we do. Sit down. Would you like some tea?”
“No. Baby oil would be fine.”
“I see. I’ll be back in a moment.”
Todd had one foot in the doorway, never allowing the slightest deviation from his mission, which should have been over by now. But Elsa was taking too long in producing the baby oil, and Omar had since chanced to enter the living room by the back door.
“Hello. I’m Omar. Nice to meet you. Is there anything you need?”
“Just baby oil. It’s already being taken care of by your—by his mother.”
“Oh, so you’ve met our son.”
“He let me in.”
“Yes, he is quite forward for his age. Just like a little prince.”
Omar smiled widely, giving Todd a view of his uncommonly full mouth of teeth.
“Exceptional teeth,” Todd remarked.
“I’m sorry?”
Kolya interrupted, giving Todd’s pants a tug and holding up a small jar with its unscrewed lid.
“He wants you to screw it back on,” Omar said.
Todd obliged, but still kept the foot in the doorway.
“Here,” he said, returning the jar to the child.
Kolya took it and carried it over (stumbling once or twice) to include in a collection of lidded objects.
“He always knows exactly what he wants,” said Omar.
“Here it is,” Elsa cheerily remarked, having rejoined them. “Take the rest of the bottle. We have plenty. Do you have a little visitor at your house?”
Todd flushed scarlet, then white.
“I don’t think so.” He accepted the bottle slowly, his hand shaking a bit. “Thank you very much.”
Since the rather long incident with Wynnet, Todd had had very few visitors in his cottage. But Elsa’s words had reminded him of a time (not so distant) when he had almost expected strange feelings to overcome him, feelings that shattered his isolation with the illusion that there were others nearby.
And, if he had to name it, he would have said that it had been the presence of a child. No, there were no little visitors in his home, he must convince himself.
He must convince himself that his own life had purpose. For didn’t he know how to make society work again? Didn’t he know what it needed? If only he could convince them further—those letters of his were not enough. If a monarchy were to be restored, he must do the restoring, not just write about it. If only…
Thoughts of children he had known came to him as he neared sleep: school friends, his siblings’ kids, young faces he had seen on holovision. Was there a young monarch among them, waiting to be enthroned?
Why not enthrone the little prince of Novosibirsk?
The little prince of Novosibirsk.
Yes. The one who will awaken them. The one who has already changed our way of life.
Our?
Much as it needed to be changed…
The voices!
Todd opened his eyes, turned on a lamp, and waited for the voice to stop. There must not be voices again. For they were making him lose control. They were thinking for him; they were feeling for him. Had his life lost so much force, that it must be directed by—by what?
The little prince is waiting. We are all waiting, too. Waiting for him. Waiting for you.
If only the voices were sometimes wrong. He would not be compelled to listen to them.
“Good night,” Todd said aloud.
/> Good night, Alexei whispered, an old ghost who dropped roughly through the air, like an old season’s wind caught between doors.
19.
As Todd walked in a dreamlike gait toward the little prince’s house he was overtaken by Karyne, who stomped forward like an angry bull.
“Excuse me,” Todd offered.
“Yes,” she said, barely slowing.
“Lovely day.”
“I don’t think so. A day is only as lovely as the consciences that support it!”
“Mine is free today. And yours?”
Her glance was like that of a shooting star.
“No one at Novosibirsk has a free conscience. If you do, you don’t belong here.” She stopped, and stared coldly at him, as if to challenge a response. But Todd had no response for such a pedestrian dialogue, except to say:
“I do hope you are able to free yourself up and relax a bit.”
“All right!” she exploded. “I tell you! Your life is in danger!”
“Excuse me?”
“Your holistic base! Your raison d’être is being challenged. None of us here at the earth’s only mecca for responsible intelligence is safe. Our very fabric is unravelling.”
“Why?”
“Because in that house (she pointed) there lives a reckless, selfish little beast who is draining the life-supporting energy from our community!”
“But—”
“And I am going there to declare our intent to remove him from Novosibirsk.”
“This beast has a gender?”
“It is a human child. Of course it has gender.”
“Oh,” Todd reflects. “But wait. You’re not speaking of Kolya, the little prince?”
“By whatever name or affectation, there is only one.”
“My God.”
Todd sprinted off ahead of the briskly-moving