Beggars In Spain

  Leisha nodded neutrally; preternaturally sharp hearing had always struck her as a terrible idea. The benefits of hearing a whisper six rooms away were outweighed by the pain of hearing shatter-rock three rooms away. P-hearing kids were fitted for sound-control implants at two months of age.

  “Samplice gives its researchers a lot of leeway.” Walcott stopped to cough, a sound so thin and tentative that Leisha thought of ghosts coughing. “They say they hope we’ll stumble on something wonderful, but the truth is that the company is in a terrible state of disorganization and they just don’t know how to supervise scientists. About two years ago I asked for permission to work on some of the peptides associated with Sleeplessness.”

  Leisha said wryly, “I wouldn’t think there was anything associated with Sleeplessness that hadn’t been researched already.”

  Walcott seemed to find this funny; he gave a gasping chuckle, un-twisted his skinny legs from around the chair, and twisted them around each other. “Most people think not. But I was working with the peptides in adult Sleepless, and I was using some new approaches pioneered at L’Institut Technique de Lyons. By Gaspard-Thiereux. Do you know his work?”

  “I’ve heard of him.”

  “You probably don’t know this new approach. It’s very new itself.” Walcott wound a hand through his hair and tugged; both hand and hair were insubstantial. “I should have started by asking how secure this office was.”

  “Completely,” Leisha said. “Or you wouldn’t be in it.” But Walcott only nodded; apparently he was not one of those Sleepers offended by Sleepless security. Her estimation of him rose a little.

  “To shorten this recital, what I think I’ve found is a way to create sleeplessness in adults who were born Sleepers.”

  Leisha’s hands moved to pick up…what? Something. The hands stopped. She stared at them. “To…”

  “Not all the problems are worked out yet.” Walcott launched into a complicated thesis of altered peptide manufacture, neuron synapses, and redundant information coding in DNA, none of which Leisha could follow. She sat quietly, while the universe took a different shape.

  “Dr. Walcott…you’re sure?”

  “About lysine transference redundancy?”

  “No. About creating sleeplessness in Sleepers—”

  Walcott ran his other hand through his hair. “No, of course we’re not sure. How could we be? We need controlled experiments, additional replications, not to mention funding for—”

  “But in theory you can do it.”

  “Oh, theory,” Walcott said, and even in her shock this seemed an odd dismissal for a scientist to make. Evidently Walcott was a pragmatist. “Yes, we can do it in theory.”

  “With all the side effects? Including…longevity?”

  “Well, that’s one of the things we don’t know. This is all very rough yet. But before we go any further, we need a lawyer.”

  The sentence centered Leisha. Something was not right here. She found it. “Why are you here alone, Dr. Walcott? Surely any legal situation connected with this research is the responsibility of Samplice, and surely the firm has its own counsel.”

  “Director Lee doesn’t know I’m here. I’m acting on my own. I need a lawyer in a personal capacity.”

  Leisha picked up a paper magnet—that must have been what her fingers had been searching for, yes, why not—turned it on, turned it off, stroked it with her fingers. The transluced window glowed behind Walcott’s head. “Go on.”

  “When I first realized where this line of research was heading, my assistant and I took it off-line. Completely. We kept no records in the company datanet, ran no simulations on anything except free-standing computers, wiped all programs each night, and took hard-copies—the only copies—of all progress home with us each night in portable safes, in duplicate. We told no one what we were doing, not even the director.”

  “Why did you do that, Doctor?”

  “Because Samplice is a public company, and 62 percent of the stock is divided between two mutual funds controlled by Sleepless.”

  When he turned his head, the pale milky eyes seemed to absorb light.

  “One of the mutual funds is offered by Canniston Fidelity; the other is traded from Sanctuary. Forgive me, Ms. Camden, for being so blunt, and even more for the reasoning behind the bluntness. But Director Lee is not a particularly admirable man. He has been indicted before—although not convicted—of misuse of funds. My assistant and I were afraid that if he was approached by anyone from Sanctuary to discontinue the research…or anything…in the beginning my assistant and I had only a glimmer. A wild enough glimmer that we weren’t sure we could interest any other reputable research company. To tell the truth, we’re still not. It’s still just theory. And Sanctuary could have offered so very much money to just cut the whole thing off…”

  Leisha was careful to not answer.

  “Well. Two months ago, something odd happened. We knew, of course, that the Samplice net probably wasn’t secure—what net is, realistically? That’s why we weren’t on it. But Timmy and I—Timmy is my assistant, Dr. Timothy Herlinger—didn’t realize that people scanned the nets not only for what was on it, but for what wasn’t. Apparently they do. Somebody outside the company must have been routinely matching lists of employees with net files, because Timmy and I came into our lab one morning and there was a message on our terminal: ‘What the hell have you two guys been working on for two months?’”

  Leisha said, “How do you know the message was from outside the company and not a snide hint of discovery from your director?”

  “Because our director couldn’t discover a boil on his ass,” Walcott said, surprising her again. “Although that’s not the real reason. The message was signed ‘stockholder.’ But what really scared us, Timmy and me, was that it was on a free-standing computer. No telelinks of any kind. Not even electricity. It’s an IBM-Y, running directly off Y-energy cones. And the lab was locked.”

  Something prickled in Leisha’s stomach. “Other keys?”

  “Only Director Lee. Who was at a conference in Barbados.”

  “He gave his key to someone. Or a duplicate of it. Or lost it. Or Dr. Herlinger did.”

  Walcott shrugged. “Not Timmy. But let me go on with my story. We ignored the message. But we decided to put the work we had—by this time we were almost there—somewhere safe. So we destroyed all but a single copy, rented a safe-deposit box in the downtown branch of the First National Bank, and took just one key. At night we buried the key in my back yard, under a rose bush. An Endicott Perfection—triple roses blooming consecutively throughout your spring and fall garden.”

  Leisha looked at Walcott as if he had lost his mind. He smiled faintly. “Didn’t you read pirate books as a child, Ms. Camden?”

  “I never read much fiction.”

  “Well. I suppose it sounds melodramatic, but we couldn’t think what else to do.” He ran his left hand again through the thinning hair, which had begun to look like tangled fringe. All at once his voice lost its confident strength, turning wispy and tired. “The key is still there, under the rose bush. I dug it up this morning. But the research papers are gone from the safe-deposit box. It’s empty.”

  Leisha got up and walked to the window. Unthinking, she cleared the glass. Blood-red light low over Lake Michigan stained the water. In the east a crescent moon rode high.

  “When did you discover this theft?”

  “This morning. I dug up the key to go get the papers so Timmy and I could add something, and then we went to the bank. I told the bank officials the box was empty. They said there was nothing registered as in it. I told them I had personally put nine sheets of paper into the box.”

  “You verified that on-line at the time of rental.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Did you get a hard-copy receipt?”

  “Yes.” He passed it to her. Leisha examined it. “But then when the bank manager called up the electronic record, it showed that Dr. Adam W
alcott had come back the next day and removed all the papers, and that Dr. Adam Walcott had signed a receipt to that effect. And Ms. Camden—they had that receipt.”

  “With your signature.”

  “Yes. But I never signed it! It’s a forgery!”

  “No, it’ll be your handwriting,” Leisha said. “How many documents a month do you sign at Samplice, Doctor?”

  “Dozens, I suppose.”

  “Supplies requests, fund disbursements, routing slips. Do you read them all?”

  “No, but—”

  “Have any secretaries left recently?”

  “Why…I suppose so. Director Lee has great trouble keeping support staff.” The wispy brows rushed together. “But the director had no idea what we were working on!”

  “No, I’m sure he didn’t.” Leisha put both hands across her stomach. Long ago clients had stopped making her queasy. Any lawyer who practiced for twenty years got used to misfits, criminals, manipulators, heroes, charlatans, nut cases, victims, and shitballs. You put your belief in the law, not in the client.

  But no lawyer had ever before had a client who could turn Sleepers into Sleepless.

  She willed the queasiness away. “Go on, Doctor.”

  “It’s not that anyone could duplicate our work,” Walcott said, still in that faint, die-away voice. “For one thing, we didn’t get to put on the last, very critical equations, which Timmy and I are still working out. But all of the work is ours, and we want it back. Timmy gave up several chamber-music rehearsals to our efforts. And, of course, there will be medical prizes someday.”

  Leisha gazed at Walcott’s face. An alteration in body chemistry that could transform the human race, and this wispy man seemed to see it primarily in terms of rose bushes, pirate games, prizes, and chamber music. She said, “You wanted a lawyer to tell you where you stood legally. Personally.”

  “Yes. And to represent Timmy and me against the bank, or Samplice, if it comes to that.” Suddenly he looked at her with that disconcerting directness that he seemed able to summon but not maintain. “We came to you because you’re a Sleepless. And because you’re Leisha Camden. Everyone knows you don’t believe in separating the human race into two so-called species, and of course our work would end that sort of…this sort of…” He waved the tabloid picture of her and Calvin Hawke. “And, of course, theft is theft, even within a company.”

  “Samplice didn’t steal your research, Dr. Walcott. Neither did the bank.”

  “Then who…”

  “I have no evidence. But I’d like to see both you and Dr. Herlinger here tomorrow at 8:00 A.M. And in the meantime—this is important—don’t write anything down. Anywhere.”

  “I understand.”

  She said, not knowing she was going to speak until the words were out, “Making Sleepers into Sleepless…”

  “Yes,” he said, “well.” And he turned away from her face to stare across her otherwise utilitarian office at the exotic flowers, riotous with color or pale as moonlight, planted under artificial light in their specially-built corner bed.

  “THEY’RE ALL LEGITIMATE,” KEVIN SAID. He came into Leisha’s study from his own, hard-copy in hand. She looked up from her brief for Simpson v. Offshore Fishing. The flowers that Alice insisted on sending daily sat on her desk: sunflowers and daisies and genemod alumbines. The things never wilted before the next shipment arrived. Even in winter the apartment was filled with California blooms Leisha didn’t really like but couldn’t bring herself to throw away.

  Lamplight glowed on Kevin’s glossy brown hair, strong smooth face. He looked younger than 47, younger in fact than Leisha, although he was four years older. Blanker, Alice had said to Leisha, but she had only said it once.

  “All legitimate?”

  “The whole file drawer,” he said. “Walcott was State University of New York at Potsdam and Deflores University, not distinguished but acceptable. Middling student. Two minor publications, clean police record, sits square with the IRS. Two teaching posts, two research, no official acrimony when he left either of them, so maybe he’s just a restless type. Herlinger is different. He’s only twenty-five, this is his first job. Berkeley and U.C. Irvine in biochemistry, graduated in the top five percent of his class, promising future. But just before his Ph.D. was granted he was arrested, tried, and convicted for gene-altering controlled substances. He got a suspended sentence, but that’s enough to make problematical a job anywhere better than Samplice. At least for a while. No tax problems, but then no income yet either to speak of.”

  “Which controlled substance?”

  “Luna snow, altered for electrical storms in the limbic. Makes you think you’re a religious prophet. Trial records show Herlinger saying he had no other way to make med school tuition. He appears very bitter; maybe you want to call up the records for yourself.”

  Leisha said, “I will. Does it feel to you like a young man’s temporary bitterness over a bad break? Or a part of his character?”

  Kevin shrugged. She should have known better; that was not the kind of determination Kevin would make. Consequences interested him; motivations didn’t. Leisha said, “Only two minor publications for Walcott, and mediocre school performance, yet he’s capable of a breakthrough like this?”

  Kevin smiled. “You always were an intellectual snob, my darling.”

  “As are we all. All right, researchers get lucky. Or maybe Herlinger did the real DNA work, not Walcott; maybe Herlinger’s very capable intellectually but either is an exploitable innocent or just can’t follow rules. What about Samplice?”

  “Legitimate, struggling company, mediocre earnings profile, ROA less than 3 percent last year, which is low for a high-tech organization that made no major capital investments. I give them another year, two at the most. It’s badly managed; the director, Lawrence Lee, has the job solely because of his name. His father was Stanton Lee.”

  “Nobel Prize in physics?”

  “Yes. And Director Lee claims descent from General Robert E. as well, although that claim’s bogus. But it looks good in publicity releases. Walcott told you the truth; record-keeping at Samplice is a mess. I doubt they can find things in their own electronic files. There’s no leadership. And Lee has a board of directors’ reprimand for mismanagement of funds.”

  “And First National Bank?”

  “Absolutely square. All the records for that safe-deposit box are complete and accurate. Of course, that doesn’t mean that they weren’t tampered with from the outside, both electronically and in hard-copy. But I’d be really surprised if the bank is involved.”

  “I never thought it was,” Leisha said grimly. “It’s got strong security?”

  “The best. We designed it.”

  She hadn’t known that. “Then there are only two groups that can manage that kind of electronic wizardry, and your company’s one of them.”

  Kevin said gently, “That may not be true. There are Sleepers who are good deck rats…”

  “Not that good.”

  Kevin didn’t repeat his statement about her intellectual snobbery. Instead he said quietly, “If Walcott’s research is accurate, this could change the world, Leisha. Again.”

  “I know.” She found herself staring at him, and wondered what emotions had been on her face. “Want a glass of wine, Kevin?”

  “I can’t, Leisha. I’ve got all this work to finish.”

  “Actually, so do I. You’re right.”

  He went back to his study. Leisha picked up her notes for Simpson v. Offshore Fishing. She had trouble concentrating. How long had it been since she and Kevin had made love? Three weeks? Four?

  There was so much work to do. Events were happening so fast. Maybe she could see him before she left again in the morning. No—he was taking the other plane to Bonn. Well then, later in the week. If they were in the same city, if they both had time. She felt no sense of urgency about sex with Kevin. But, then, she never had.

  A memory twisted in her: Richard’s hands on her breas
ts.

  She leaned closer to the terminal, widening her search for legal precedents in marine law.

  LEISHA SAID LEVELLY, “YOU STOLE ADAM WALCOTT’S RESEARCH papers from a safe-deposit box in the First National Bank in Chicago.”

  Jennifer Sharifi raised her eyes to Leisha’s. The two women stood at opposite ends of Jennifer’s living room in Sanctuary. Behind the glossy mound of Jennifer’s bound hair, the portrait of Tony Indivino blinked and smiled.

  “Yes,” Jennifer said. “I did.”

  “Jennifer!” Richard cried, in anguish.

  Leisha turned slowly toward him. It seemed to her that the anguish was not for the deed, but for the admitting of it. Richard knew.

  He stood on the balls of his feet, his head with the bushy eyebrows lowered. He looked just the same as he had at seventeen, the day she’d gone to meet him in the small suburban house in Evanston. Almost thirty years ago. Richard had found something in Sanctuary, something he needed, some sense of community—maybe he had always needed it. And Sanctuary was, always had been, Jennifer. Jennifer and Tony. Nonetheless, to be part of this criminal theft, Richard must have changed. To be a part of this, he must have changed beyond her knowing.

  He said thickly, “Jennifer will say nothing without her lawyer present.”

  Leisha said acidly, “Well, that shouldn’t be too difficult. How many lawyers has Sanctuary captured by now? Candace Holt. Will Sandaleros. Jonathan Cocchiara. How many others?”

  Jennifer sat down on the sofa, drawing the folds of her abbaya around her. Today the glass wall was opaqued; soft blue-green patterns played over it. Jennifer, Leisha remembered suddenly, had never liked cloudy days.

  Jennifer said, “If you’re bringing legal charges, Leisha, deliver the warrant.”

  “You know I’m not a prosecutor. I represent Dr. Walcott.”

  “Then you plan on handing this alleged theft over to the D.A.?”