Renie answered on the first flash. When the screen came up black, she felt sure she knew who it would be. "Irene Sulaweyo?"
"So you know my work number, too." She was faintly nettled by this Martine woman's here-then-gone mystery. "Did you just make a lucky guess that I'd be here before school started?"
"Please remember, Ms. Sulaweyo, it was you who began this by searching for me." The French woman sounded amused. "I hope you are not going to be difficult because I have taken the initiative."
"It's not that. I just didn't expect—"
"That I would be able to find you so easily? Information is my business, if you will forgive an old cliché. And I know far more about you now than simply your work number and your whereabouts, Ms. Sulaweyo. I know your employment history, your grades in school, your salary. I know that your mother Miriam who died in the Shopper's Paradise fire was of Xhosa lineage, that your father Joseph is half-Zulu, and that he is currently listed disabled. I know about your brother Stephen in the Durban Outskirt hospital. I know what net services you subscribe to, what books you download, even what kind of beer your father drinks."
"Why are you telling me this?" she said tightly.
"Because I wanted you to know that I am thorough. And because I needed to find out these things for myself, to find out who you really were, before I could talk to you."
This time she could not keep the fury from her voice. "So I passed the test? Thank you. Merci."
There was a long pause. When the mystery woman spoke, her voice was gentler. "You came looking for me, Ms. Sulaweyo. I am sure you value your privacy. So do I."
"So where do we go from here?"
"Ah." Martine Desroubins was suddenly businesslike. "That is an excellent question. I think a controlled exchange of information is in order. You said that you got my name through Susan Van Bleeck. I had hoped to speak to her about a subject which interests me. Perhaps you and I, we share this interest?"
"What subject—what interest is that?"
"First things first." The invisible woman sounded as though she were settling in. "Tell me again what happened to Susan. And this time, tell me the whole truth, please."
It was a laborious process, but not an entirely unpleasant one. The woman on the other end was grudging with information, but there were hints of a dry wit and perhaps even a kind heart hiding behind the reserve.
According to Martine Desroubins, she had received a call from Susan after Renie's visit, but had not been able to talk at the time. The postponed conversation had never occurred. Renie did not divulge the doctor's deathbed message, but after she described her brother's illness, her attempts to discover its cause, and the strange city-virus left on her machine, the other woman was quiet for a long moment. Renie could sense a sort of turning point, as though a chess game played through its opening moves was finally beginning to take its real shape.
"Was Doctor Van Bleeck calling me because she thought I could help with the problem of your brother? Or just help identify this strange city?"
"I don't know. She never told me what she wanted to talk to you about. There was also a book—she left a note behind with the title."
"Ah, yes, I remember you began to tell me about the book. Could you tell me the title?"
"Early Mesoamerica. By someone named Bolivar Atasco."
This time the pause was shorter. "The name sounds somewhat familiar. Have you examined the book?"
"I downloaded it, but I can't see anything relevant I haven't had much chance to really look, though."
"I am obtaining a copy for myself. Perhaps I will notice something you would not."
Renie felt an unexpected sense of relief. Maybe she really can help. Maybe she can help me get into TreeHouse, find this man Singh. Her brief moment of gratitude was followed by a pang of uncertainty. Why should she so quickly accept this mystery woman as a possible ally? Because I'm desperate, of course. Out loud, she said: "Now you know about me, but what about you? All I've heard is that you knew Susan and she tried to reach you."
The smooth voice sounded amused. "I have not been forthcoming, I know. I value my privacy, but there is nothing mysterious about me. I am what I told you—a researcher, and a fairly well-known one. That you can verify."
"I've put my life in your hands, you know. I don't feel very secure."
"That may change. In any case, let me examine the anthropology book, then I will call you back again at your lunch break. In the meantime, I will send you information on this Atasco. It will save you some time searching. And, Ms. Sulaweyo. . . ?" She made even Renie's own name sound like something Gallic.
"Yes?"
"Next time, perhaps we should call each other Martine and Irene, yes?"
"Renie, not Irene. But yes, I suppose we should."
"À bientôt, then." Just when Renie thought the woman had rung off, as silently as the first time, her voice came again. "One more thing. I will give you some other information for free, although it will not make you happy, I am afraid. The Durban Outskirt Medical Facility, where your brother stays, has gone to full Bukavu 4 quarantine this morning. I think there will be no more visitors allowed." She paused again. "I am very sorry."
Renie stared at the empty screen, mouth open. By the time she began to ask questions, the line was dead.
!Xabbu found her in her office during the first break.
"Look at this," she snarled, gesturing at the screen of her pad.
". . . all questions on our answer line, or contact the Durban Department of Public Health. We hope this will be a temporary measure. Daily updates will be posted. . . ." the tired doctor was saying for about the dozenth time.
"It's on a goddamn loop. They're not even answering their phones."
"I do not understand." !Xabbu stared at the screen, then at Renie. "What is this?"
Tired already at 9:45 in the morning, and yet jittery with furious tension, she told him about the expanded hospital quarantine. Halfway through, she realized he didn't know about Martine Desroubins yet, so she started the explanation over.
"And do you think this woman is trustworthy?" he asked when she had finished.
"I don't know. I think so. I hope so. I'm beginning to run out of ideas, not to mention strength. You can be here when she calls at lunch and tell me what you think."
He nodded slowly. "And the information she gave you so far?"
Renie had already muted the hospital-loop; now she broke the connection completely and brought up the Atasco files. "See for yourself. This Bolivar Atasco is an anthropologist and an archaeologist. Very famous. Rich as hell, too, from a wealthy family. He more or less retired a few years back, but he writes an occasional scientific article. He seems to have houses in about five different countries, but South Africa isn't one of them. I don't see what any of it has to do with Stephen."
"Perhaps it does not. Perhaps it is something in the book itself, some idea, that Doctor Van Bleeck meant you to see."
"Maybe. Martine's looking at it, too. She might come up with something."
"What about that other thing—the thing you discovered before the doctor died?"
Renie shook her head wearily. It was hard to think of anything besides Stephen, now even farther from her, sealed in that hospital like a fly locked in amber. "What thing are you talking about?"
"TreeHouse, you said. All the references to this Singh, this Blue Dog Anchorite man, pointed to TreeHouse. But you never told me what TreeHouse is."
"If you had spent more time gossiping with other students instead of studying so much, you'd have heard all about it." Renie closed the Atasco files. She had the beginnings of a bad headache and couldn't stand looking at the compact text any longer. "It's an urban legend in the VR world. Almost a myth. But it's real."
!Xabbu's smile was slightly pained. "Are all myths false, then?"
She winced inwardly. "I didn't mean to imply anything. Sorry. It's been a bad day already, and it's just started. Besides, I'm not good on religion, !Xabbu."
br /> "You did not offend me, and I did not mean to cause you more upset." He patted her hand, a touch as light as the brush of a bird's wing. "But often I think that people believe things which can be measured are true things, and things which cannot be measured are untrue things. What I read of science makes it even more sad, for that is what people point to as a 'truth,' yet science itself seems to say that all we can hope to find are patterns in things. But if that is true, why is one way of explaining a pattern worse than others? Is English inferior to Xhosa or my native tongue because it cannot express all the things they can?"
Renie felt a vague sense of oppression, not because of her friend's words, but because of what seemed the increasing impossibility of understanding anything. Words and numbers and facts, the tools she had used to measure and manipulate her world, now seemed to have lost their sharp edges. "!Xabbu, my head's hurting and I'm worried about Stephen. I can't really have a decent discussion about science and religion right now."
"Of course." The little man nodded, watching as she pulled a painblocker from her bag and swallowed it. "You look very unhappy, Renie. Is is just the quarantine?"
"God, no, it's everything. We still don't have any answers or any way to bring my brother back, and the search just seems to get more complicated and more vague. If this were a detective story, you'd have a body and some bloodstains and footprints in the garden—it's definitely a murder, and you've definitely got clues. But all we have here are things that seem a little strange, bits of information that might mean something. The more I think, the less sense it makes." She pushed at her temples with her fingers. "It's like when you say a word too many times, and suddenly it doesn't mean anything anymore. It's just . . . a word. That's how I'm feeling."
!Xabbu pursed his lips. "That is something like what I meant when I said I could no longer hear the sun." He looked around Renie's office. "Perhaps you have been too long inside—that cannot help your mood. You came in early, you said."
She shrugged. "I wanted some privacy. I can't get that back in the shelter."
!Xabbu's expression became impish. "Not much different than my rooming house. My landlady was watching me eat this morning. Very closely, but pretending not to do so. I think since she has never seen anyone like me before, she is still not quite sure I am human. So I told her the food was good, but I preferred to eat people."
"!Xabbu! You didn't!"
He chortled. "Then I told her she need not worry, because my folk only ever eat the flesh of their enemies. After that, she offered me a second helping of rice, which she has never done before. Perhaps now she wishes to make sure my stomach will be full."
"I'm not entirely sure that city life is having a good effect on you."
!Xabbu grinned at her, pleased that he had cheered her a little. "Only when they have put great distance between themselves and their own histories can people convince themselves that those they consider 'primitive' people do not have a sense of humor. My father's family, living from meal to scant meal in the middle of the Kalahari, walking miles to find water, still loved jokes and funny stories. Our Grandfather Mantis loves to play tricks on others, and it is often by such tricks that he defeats his enemies when his strength is not sufficient."
Renie nodded. "Most of the white settlers here thought the same thing about my ancestors—that we were either noble savages or dirty animals. But not normal people who told each other jokes."
"All people laugh. If there is ever a race that comes after us, as we came after the Early Race, then I expect they will have a sense of humor, too."
"They'd better," Renie said sourly. The moment's diversion had not changed anything much; her head still throbbed. She pulled a second painblocker out of her desk and swallowed it. "Then maybe they'll forgive us for what a mess we've made of things."
Her friend examined her carefully. "Renie, will we not have just as much privacy if we take your pad outside and receive the call from this Martine woman there?"
"I suppose. Why?"
"Because I think you truly have been inside for too long. Whatever your cities might resemble, we are not termites. We need to see the sky."
She started to argue, then realized she did not want to. "Okay. Meet me back here at lunchtime. And I still haven't answered your question about TreeHouse."
The small hill was bare except for a thin mat of tangled grass and an acacia tree, in whose shade they were hiding from the high, strong sun. There was no wind. A yellowish murk hung over Durban.
"TreeHouse is a holdover from the early days of the net," she said. "An old-fashioned place where they make their own rules. Or at least that's what it's supposed to be—people who can go there don't talk about it much, so a lot of the information is inflated by rumors and wishful thinking."
"If they are old-fashioned, how can they keep this place hidden, as you say they do?" !Xabbu picked up a seedpod and rolled it in his fingers. He was squatting in his effortless manner, a pose that Renie found, as always, evocative of some dreamlike, distant past.
"Oh, their equipment and gear is up to date, believe me. More than up to date. These are people who have spent their entire lives on the net—some of them practically built the thing in the early days. Maybe that's why they're so militant. Because of guilt about how it's turned out." The tightness in her jaw and neck had loosened a little: either the painblocker or the open sky had done some good. "In any case, the old-fashioned part is that a lot of these people were engineers and hackers and early users of the net, and they had an idea back then that the communications network spreading across the world was going to be a free and open place, somewhere that money and power didn't matter. No one would censor anyone else, and no one would be forced into conforming with what some corporation wanted."
"What happened?"
"About what you'd expect. It was a naive idea, probably—money has a way of changing things. People started to make more and more rules, and the net began to look like the rest of the so-called civilized world."
Renie heard the lecturing rancor in her own voice and was surprised. Were !Xabbu's feelings about the city beginning to alter her? She looked out at the vast patchwork of buildings spread across Durban's hills and valleys like a colorful fungus. Suddenly it seemed almost sinister. She had always felt that industrial progress in Africa, a continent so exploited for the material gains of others and so long denied the benefits itself, was generally a good thing, but now she was not so sure.
"Anyway, the TreeHouse people took a kind of Noah's Ark approach, I guess you could say. Well, not exactly. They didn't have any things they wanted to save, but they did have some ideas they wanted to hang onto—anarchic stuff, mostly, complete freedom of expression and so on—and some other ideas they wanted to keep out. So they created TreeHouse, and constructed it in such a way that it wasn't dependent on corporate or government sponsors. It's distributed over the machinery of its users with a lot of redundancy built in, so any number of them could drop out and TreeHouse would still continue to exist."
"Why does it have that name?"
"I don't really know—you should ask Martine. Maybe from logic trees or something. A lot of these things from the early days of the net have funny names. 'Lambda Mall' comes from an early experiment in text-only VR."
"It sounds as though it would be a haven for criminals as well as those who wish freedom." !Xabbu didn't sound as if he particularly disapproved.
"It is, I'm sure. The more freedom you give people to do good, the more freedom they have to do bad as well."
Her pad beeped. Renie flipped it open.
"Bonjour." The voice, as previously, issued from a blacked-out screen. "This is your friend from Toulouse. I am calling as we arranged."
"Hello." Renie had her own videolink operating, but it seemed politic to assume the other was not receiving either. "I'm not alone. My friend !Xabbu is here. He was at Susan's with me, and knows everything I know."
"Ah." Martine's pauses were becoming characteristic. "You
are outside, somewhere, yes?"
So the French woman did have her own video on. It seemed obscurely unfair. "Outside the Polytechnic where I work."
"This line is secure, but you must be careful not to be observed." Martine spoke briskly, not chiding but stating facts. "People can read lips, and there are many ways of bringing distant things close enough to see."
Renie, a little embarrassed by having something that she had neglected pointed out to her, looked to !Xabbu, but he had his eyes closed, listening. "I'll try not to move my lips too much."
"Or you could shield your mouth with your hand so it is hard to see. This may sound extreme, Irene . . . Renie, but even if I did not understand your own problem to be serious, I have my own concerns."
"I've noticed." Her irritation escaped her control. "What are we really doing here, Martine? Are we supposed to trust each other? What am I supposed to think of someone who won't even show her face?"
"What good would that do you? I have my own reasons, Renie, and I do not owe you or anyone an explanation."
"But you trust me now?"
Martine's laugh was dourly amused. "I trust no one. But I think you are what you say you are, and I have no reason to doubt your story."
Renie looked at !Xabbu, who wore an odd, distracted expression. As if sensing her stare, he opened his eyes and gave a little shrug, Renie suppressed a sigh. Martine was right; there was nothing much at this point that either of them could do to prove good faith. She either needed to break off the connection, or close her eyes, hold her nose, and jump.
"I think I need to get into TreeHouse," she said.
The other woman was clearly caught off-balance. "What do you mean?"
"Are you certain this line is safe?"