“Utilizing many minds in large-scale CE metaconcert projects will require tweaking the designs about considerably. Jack will be working closely with me for several months in order to make some very necessary modifications.” Denis’s youthful brow creased in a slight frown. “It’s hard to argue with success—but I’m still not altogether certain that artificial augmentation of human brainpower is a good idea, especially in metaconcert. Marc narrowly escaped serious injury in the untested new configuration he and Jack used on your world.”
Hiroshi drew in his breath sharply. “I had not realized! That’s appalling! Why was nothing said to me?”
“He didn’t want to rain on your parade,” sighed Lucille.
“Jack was leading the metaconcert and Marc was the focusing agent,” Denis said. “The focuser is almost always the one at greatest risk in such a situation because his role is essentially passive. Jack called for a certain change in configuration and Marc responded with an unexpected surge of power that temporarily overwhelmed the metaconcert design. The potentiality for dysergism is high enough in bare-brain metaconcert programs using two such extraordinary minds. When such brains are hyperenergized, the hazard becomes acute unless the program is given very fine tuning. Ordinary grandmasterclass minds would not be nearly so much at risk because they can be strictly calibrated and fitted into the design structure. But paramounts are still full of surprises, unfortunately.”
“I’m not familiar with the dysergism phenomenon,” Hiroshi admitted. “Would it be the opposite of synergism, where the action of the whole is greater than that of the sum of the parts?”
“There’s more to it than that,” Denis said. “I’d be happy to explain it to you …”
“By all means!”
Lucille and Masako exchanged resigned glances.
A robot waitron came by with a tray of full champagne flutes and each of them took one. But while the others drank, the iron-masked Samurai regarded his inaccessible beverage with consternation. “I believe that ancient warriors accoutered in armor drank through broken arrow-shafts, which were hollow reeds. I refuse to make a fool of myself drinking champagne through a straw. Wife, kindly help me to remove this confounded mempo at once!”
Masako, Lucille, and Denis burst out laughing. After Hiroshi was freed, he and Denis went off into the garden for a professional discussion while the two women remained on the perimeter of the dance floor.
“I certainly didn’t take hours getting dressed in order to spend the evening talking shop,” Masako murmured crossly.
Lucille made a sympathetic noise as she finished her champagne and immediately snagged a refill from another robot. “Not when there are so many presentable young men to dance with! … But let’s play the guessing game for a little while first.”
They quickly found the First Magnate heaping a plate of hors d’oeuvres at the buffet table, costumed as Zorro and surrounded by a bevy of operant beauties. Adrien Remillard and his wife Cheri Losier-Drake danced by, dressed as Robin Hood and Maid Marian. Anne Remillard, tall and awesome in the scarlet robes of a medieval Catholic cardinal, boogied expertly with Alex Manion, who was got up as the captain of H.M.S. Pinafore. Boom-Boom Laroche, a hulking executioner with a black hood and a hangman’s noose tucked into his belt, partnered Vampira—alias Marie Remillard. And then Lucille recognized Uncle Rogi.
“He makes a rather decent Abraham Lincoln,” she decided. “But who in the world is he dancing with?”
“Her costume is … very unusual,” Masako said.
That was a gross understatement. Rogi’s petite companion was clad in an impressive silvery outfit that might have been a genuine high-altitude flight suit—except that it was extravagantly decorated with glittering rhinestones. Even the visored helmet and the mask that covered the lower part of the woman’s face shone with faux diamonds.
The “Stray Cat Strut” ended and the dancers applauded.
“There’s something rather odd about her aura,” Lucille said thoughtfully. “Let’s go make nuisances of ourselves and inspect her at close range.”
But before the two of them could make a move the music started up again, this time with “Jalousie,” and Honest Abe and his scintillating lady tangoed off at a smart pace.
“Drat,” muttered Lucille. Then she saw a red-nosed clown cut in on Rogi and take his partner away. The bookseller watched the pair for a few minutes and then retreated in the direction of the bar. At the same moment a strapping Cossack and King Henry VIII asked Masako and Lucille to dance, and they forgot all about Rogi’s mysterious companion.
Rogi spotted Kyle Macdonald, inevitably wearing Highland dress, glumly nursing a tumbler of amber liquid on a cedar bench off in the midst of some potted azaleas.
“Well, well! Who let the deadhead in?” Honest Abe chortled. “Don’t you know this bash is for Homo superior only, my good man?” He took a seat beside the fantasy writer, doffed his stovepipe hat, and sampled his own drink.
Kyle grimaced. “Argh. Don’t remind me, ye decrepit Canuck rumdum! Ever since we moved back to Earth, Masha’s worked me over with the newest tortures of latency therapy. Me! The great champion of normalcy! Would ye believe I’m now classed as a minimally operant farsensor? It was either that or get chucked out by Her Nibs all over again … The woman’s damn near irresistible in dominatrix mode.”
“Serves you right falling for a coercer,” Rogi said. “I warned you.”
“Just look at the shameless bint!” Kyle pointed out the voluptuous figure of Professor MacGregor-Gawrys, bent over backwards nearly to the floor in a tango dip by a masked Lawrence of Arabia. She wore a black-and-white Erté ball gown of the 1920s, dripping with strings of crystal and jet. Her auburn hair had been frizzed and bound about with a magpie-silk bandeau.
“Devastating beyond belief,” Rogi agreed. “Who’s the Sheik of Araby?”
“Goddam fewkin’ Severin Remillard. Who pinched your popsy?”
“You got me. One of the clowns. Identity-fuzzed.”
“Weird outfit your bird had on,” Kyle commented. “Reminded me of something, but I couldn’t put my half-spifflicated finger on it. Who the hell is she?”
“You don’t want to know.” Rogi downed a swig of bourbon.
“Och, there she goes now: Lucy in the Sky with Rhinestones. Queen of the glitz-bikers.” Kyle screwed up his craggy face as he attempted to bolster his exiguous, liquor-befuddled farsight. “God damn, I thought that outfit looked familiar! It’s a tarted-up Caledonian airfarmer’s flying kit, and that means the girl must be my own—”
Using what coercion he could conjure, Rogi socked it to his friend. “Shut up, Kyle!”
The Scotsman nearly fell off the bench. His drink went flying into an adjacent azalea tub. “Hey! Wot th’ flamin’ hell d’ye think—”
Rogi whipped his hand over Kyle’s mouth, stifling him. “I’ll tell you what’s going on if you swear to keep your big haggis-trap shut forever.”
“I shwear,” Kyle said through Rogi’s fingers.
The band played “If the Devil Danced in Empty Pockets, He’d Have a Ball in Mine.” Numbers of the partygoers joined Marc Remillard’s lead and formed into bouncy, finger-snapping country lines.
“This kind of choreography isn’t quite my style,” said the clown. “Shall we sit this one out, Diamond Mask?”
“I don’t mind.”
They made their way off the terrace into the big living room. It was dimly lit with scores of carved pumpkins with candles inside. In one alcove, a noisy variant of spin-the-bottle was being played with an empty champagne magnum. People were conversing in standing groups, sitting on the overstuffed furniture, and lounging on the floor. Pieces of discarded costume were beginning to litter the nooks and corners.
“Would you care for a drink or some munchies?” the clown asked as they passed an open bar.
“No thank you. But do have one yourself.”
He took a glass of designer water and ice. “It’s pretty noisy in here. Let?
??s go across the hall to the library. It’s got a balcony overlooking the sea.”
“Perfect.”
No one else was in the book-lined sanctum. The balcony doors were open and there were cushioned Woodard chairs waiting outside in the shadows. A cool breeze rustled the giant fir trees that framed the spectacular view.
The clown plopped into one of the metal chairs and his sparkling companion took a seat more gracefully. The dark visor of her ornate helmet was up, but her face was entirely concealed except for the hazel eyes. The clown wore traditional whiteface with a broadly drawn smile and a red rubber ball for a nose. His suit was white with big colored polka dots and he had a pleated ruff around his neck. His multicolored fright wig was topped with a floppy pointed hat.
“You’re a great dancer,” he said. “Hope I didn’t step on your toes too often. I don’t go to very many parties. A bit of a workaholic, I’m afraid.” He had his mind-screen up, but it was only casually constructed and she had no difficulty sliding through it.
“You’re very light on your feet,” she said. “What kind of work do you do?” She took special care in fashioning the probe, holding it ready until the appropriate moment.
“A little of this, a little of that. I’m sort of an apprentice in the family sweatshop. Boring stuff. Money, power, interstellar commercial intrigue …”
She laughed. “I don’t suppose you want to dispense with the games and tell me your name?”
“Why, sure! Just as soon as you show me your face, Diamond Mask.”
“Not yet. I’m surprised you can’t see it already with your deepsight.”
Hunching over his knees, he leaned closer to her, squinting. “Oof! Gimme a break. You’re hiding behind the Great Wall of China!” Shaking his head, he fell back into his seat and pretended to fan his brow. “That’s what I call a real face-blanking headscreen! What are you—an axe-murderer on the lam? Or some famous Planetary Dirigent come slumming?”
She slid the probe home and began to weave the bypass structure.
“I’m only a college student,” she said. “Math and physics. Boring … like your old family business, Mister Bozo the Clown.”
There! Now she could begin the ream while they nattered on, making idiotic boy-meets-girl small talk. She would be able to ask him questions as well as extract data from his memories, just as she had done with the members of the Dynasty, and he would never suspect.
“I’ll bet you’re lovely behind that mask, little Diamond.” He grinned hopefully. “Come on. Give us a peek.”
“Oh, no. Not yet. Tell me more about yourself first. Do you know Marc Remillard well? This house of his is really a showplace, isn’t it?”
“Kind of ostentatious, if you ask me.” The clown waved a hand in lofty dismissal. “I’ve found that people who need to surround themselves with excessive amounts of material goods are—”
Show me your metapsychic complexus.
[Profoundly esoteric image.]
What is your name?
Jon Paul Kendall Remillard.
How old are you?
Twenty.
Where do you live?
My domicile of record is 4480 Lawai Beach Road, Poipu, Kauai, Hawaii. I am not often in residence there.
What is your current occupation?
I am a Magnate of the Concilium, a member of the Panpolity Unification Directorate, an occasional participant in academic research concerning the design of metaconcert programs, and a codeveloper of cerebroenergetic equipment with my older brother Marc.
Are you participating actively in the search for the criminals known as Fury and Hydra?
Not at the present time.
In your opinion, which members of the Remillard Dynasty are most likely to harbor the entity called Fury within themselves? List them in order of probability and include Marc and Uncle Rogi in your calculations as well.
1. Marc
2. Anne
3. Paul
4. Severin
5. Adrien
6. Maurice
7. Philip
8. Catherine
9. Rogia
Give me the complete background information that leads you to your conclusions.
[Data.]
Do you know a person called Clinton Wolfe Alvarez, a resident of the planet Okanagon, who serves as an executive assistant on the staff of Dirigent Patricia Castellane?
No.
Have you ever personally encountered this particular metaconcert configuration? [Data.]
No.
Why did you attempt to farspeak the child Dorothea Mary Macdonald at her home on Caledonia?
I was curious about her. I had been told of her existence by [untranslatable Lylmik name], who indicated that she was potentially a mind of the paramount grandmasterclass, like me. I was lonely. I hoped we might become friends. I still do.
Why do members of your family call you by the nickname Jack the Bodiless?
Because my normal physical form is that of a disembodied brain. This body and certain others I wear are metacreative constructs.
!!! Who … knows about this outside of your family?
The Lylmik Supervisors, a handful of exotic and human friends.
You will recall nothing of this probing.
Yes—
“—but when you’re a nine-hundred-kilo canary like Marc, you get to sing anywhere you damn please, right?”
She laughed appreciatively at the conclusion of the joke. “Oh, abso-bloody-lutely!” She got to her feet. “This has been ever so much of a giggle, Mister Bozo, but now I’d like to go dancing again.”
The clown’s face fell. “Aw, you promised, Diamond Mask. First let me see you for real.” He reached for her jewel-encrusted breathing equipment, but she skipped out of range, laughing again, and dashed away toward the terrace. The band was playing a fair imitation of the famous George Benson cut of “This Masquerade.”
The clown closed and locked the library door, then went into the adjacent room that served as Marc’s home office. A credenza yielded up a powerful subspace communicator at the touch of a button. The clown called Chief Evaluator Throma’eloo Lek at the Office of the Galactic Magistratum in Orb.
“Lek? Get ready for an intimode mind-squirt. I’m gone.”
Shutting off the communicator, the clown relaxed in Marc’s big leather chair, closed his eyes, and extended his mind 4000 lightyears to bespeak the waiting Krondak official on his intimate telepathic mode:
Lek, this is vitally important. I want you to arrange the immediate arrest of one Clinton Wolfe Alvarez, an administrative assistant to the Dirigent of Okanagon. He is an unusually powerful Grand Master with all five faculties up to snuff, so you’d better send a Krondak team. Hoke up some civil charge like suspicion of vehicular homicide. Groundcar hit-and-run. You’ll have to arrange a major computer hack-job, but I know you’re capable of it. See that Alvarez is held without bail and with as much publicity as possible until you and I can get to Okanagon to interrogate him. I especially want the Earth media to find out that this guy is in the slammer just as soon as it happens. And make it happen soon! Within hours, not days. Can you do it?
Certainly, if you say so. What is the actual reason for detaining this individual?
I’m virtually certain he’s part of Hydra. Catch you later …
The clown opened his eyes and sat there for a few minutes, thinking. Then he left the office and went out to find Rogi.
The bookseller was at the bar, filling a glass of ice cubes with straight Wild Turkey. “She do her number on you okay, kid?”
The clown nodded. “And she was very good, Uncle Rogi. Too damned good. Once I deliberately let her in, I was almost dead meat. I was actually forced to tell her the truth. Thank heaven she didn’t ask the wrong questions. Or maybe I mean the right ones.”
“Well, well. So she really is paramount-class.”
“Beyond a doubt … She fingered a Hydra-unit that her grandmother had inadvertently stumbled over and showed
me the monster’s metaconcert config.”
Rogi brushed all that aside. “But am I off the hook? Did you fix it so she won’t drag me off to Okanagon and get us both killed?”
“All you have to do is make certain she checks out the interstellar news tomorrow. A certain Citizen Clinton Alvarez is about to be framed on a capital charge and locked up howling his head off in the Chelan Metro chokey on the planet Okanagon. Dorothea will call off the trip like a shot when she finds out.”
Rogi let out a sigh of relief. “What next?”
The clown gazed out at the dancers. Brom Bones and Diamond Mask were waltzing to Wes Montgomery’s “West Coast Blues.” Near them was a couple in strikingly beautiful Shakespearean costume—a burly Moor of Venice and a delicate, pale-skinned Desdemona with scarlet lips. For an instant, Rogi thought he recognized the woman. But then he realized he was mistaken. Both she and her companion wore impenetrable mental disguises.
“I’m taking my own starship to Okanagon,” the clown said. “You make sure our mutual female friend goes to Kauai after she gets the news. Drag her there if you have to, and see that the two of you stay on the island under Malama’s protection until I find out what Clinton Alvarez has to say for himself.”