CHAPTER TWO
"...FOR I WAS BLIND, AND NOW I CAN SEE."
FROM THE DIARY OF CARL KOLCHAK
August 11, 8:37 A. M.
I was attending the conference in London. Not exactly my usual beat, it's true. But the reporter originally assigned to the story--one Ronald Updyke, hypochondriac extraordinaire--had overnight developed a severe ear infection which his doctor insisted made it impossible for him to fly. At the same time, I realized it had been more than two years since my last vacation. It took some effort on my part--a little manipulation, a bit of arguing, and a touch of amateur psychology from yours truly--but I eventually convinced my managing editor, Antonio Vincenzo, that I should replace Ron in covering the conference. I think he finally agreed just to get me out of his rapidly-receding hair.
I hadn't been to London since the early 1950's, more than twenty years ago, and I was looking forward to spending some time relaxing there. I had Ron's research, which I begged, borrowed, and finally stole out of his desk. I figured a couple dull hours at the conference and another hour or so writing it up, and then the rest of the time was mine to rest, relax, and recreate.
I should have remembered that old saying about rest and the wicked...
"Ouch! Hey, watch where you're going, will ya?"
Carl had just picked up his name-tag at the reception table when, stepping back, he had collided with another man. The thought of apologizing or simply walking away never occurred to him. In Chicago, you didn't apologize when you bumped into someone, not unless you wanted to be thought a weakling. You went on the offensive, as loud and shrill as you could make yourself, and forced the other guy to back off. Those were the Chicago rules.
Unfortunately, this man did not know the Chicago rules. Unimpressed by Carl's bluster, he simply looked down the enormous length of his nose, fixing the reporter with a look of absolute disdain.
"That's my foot you're standing on, Mister..." The man scrutinized Carl's nametag. "Mister Kolchak. Would you kindly remove yourself from it?"
Carl's rival bore himself as regally as if he had just been declared King of England.
...or possibly Queen of England, Carl reflected, noting the man's hair, which was curled into a grand bouffant that Carl's late Aunt Harriet would have killed for. The man's age was impossible to determine. He might have been fifty, he might have been seventy. He was decidedly overdressed, in a velvet suit complete with bright red bowtie with a ludicrously frilly white shirt peeking out from underneath his jacket. Topping off the ensemble was a flowing black cloak - almost a cape - that seemed to glide with the man's every movement.
"Who picked out your wardrobe, Liberace?" Carl groused as he stepped (with a small a step as was possible) to one side.
The man's face colored. "I apologize if my attire can't quite match your level of sartorial elegance," he said acidly, eyeing Carl's battered suit and hat. "Brooks Brothers, I believe? Purchased off the rack... twenty years ago. Quite the antique you're wearing, my compliments."
Carl bristled and prepared a sharp retort, which he bit back when the tall man raised a hand and looked to his right. Carl followed the man's gaze, and noted an Institute official making his way toward them.
"It appears we're making a scene, Mr. Kolchak. Can we agree to simply allow each other a wide berth?" The man held out his hand.
"Delighted." Carl shook the outstretched hand, and suppressed a wince as he noted the strength of the man's handshake. Perhaps not the best man to pick a fight with, after all.
The official had stopped approaching, but was still eyeing them warily. Carl and his rival both gave him a short wave. Then Carl turned away, moving toward the entrance to the reception hall.
He lingered just long enough, however, to listen as the other man identified himself at the reception desk.
"Dr. John Smith."
"I see you still have a knack for attracting attention, Doctor."
The Doctor smiled as he turned to the woman who had greeted him.
"Liz! It has been far too long."
"Five years," she acknowledged, stretching out her hand. The Doctor took the proffered hand gently in his own, then released it.
"So what was that little contest all about?" she asked, indicating the lobby outside. "I only caught a little of it, but it seemed very unnecessary."
"The man annoyed me. He was rude, loud, and obnoxious."
"Whereas you were the soul of discretion?"
"I could have handled it better," the Doctor acknowledged.
They worked their way forward, through a crowd that had already grown startlingly thick. The conference hall was spacious, easily large enough to double as an auditorium. Even so, the room was packed, both with visiting scientists and with members of the international press.
"Quite the turnout," the Doctor observed. He paused by a snack table and helped himself to a croissant.
"Arthur's discovery is supposed to be revolutionary."
"Ah, yes. The magic bauble that will, with proper research and study, make Freud and Jung look like advocates of leeches. 'A breakthrough that will inextricably link the fields of geology, gemology, and psychology.'" The Doctor quoted directly from the Institute's advance press material. "And presumably whatever other '-ologies' they can think to tack onto it."
"You sound skeptical."
"I've seen too many 'revolutionary advances' that turned out to be anything but."
"I know Arthur Philip Lloyd, Doctor. He's an honest man."
"I'm not questioning his integrity, Liz. Let's just say, experience has taught me to be wary of any mere object that can potentially influence a human mind."
The Doctor scanned the crowd as they edged nearer the podium where Dr. Lloyd was scheduled to deliver his lecture at 9:00. "Pardon me, old fellow," he said as he weaved around a large man who had camped himself at the snack table.
"I will say this," he remarked to Liz, "I hope your friend Arthur is comfortable addressing large crowds."
Carl had to admit, he was impressed at the size of the crowd. He had expected a certain contingent of British and American press, of course. But the room was practically overflowing with scientists and reporters from all over the world.
Most of the journalists had little to no interest in the story, and had come for the prospect of a vacation paid for by their expense accounts. They segregated themselves by country or culture almost immediately upon entering. A handful of Japanese stood respectfully in a back corner, talking rapidly to each other while taking in every detail with unblinking eyes. In 6 months, Carl mused cynically, an exact replica of this building would probably stand in Tokyo.
Near the center of the room, a group of German and French reporters argued heatedly in their own languages; from the few words Carl could pick out, he gathered that the dispute had something to do with the quality of each country's cuisine. Or possibly jelly donuts. Meanwhile, not far from where he was standing, Carl could make out nasal New York whines dueling with flat Midwestern drawls, in a detailed discussion of the merits of football versus baseball. By the nearest wall, a few British newsmen discreetly mocked their American counterparts for calling rugby "football" and football, "soccer."
"Amateurs," Carl muttered disgustedly at the lot of them. Real reporters didn't cloister themselves into like-minded cliques; real reporters stayed alert in a crowd, looking for distinctive personalities and anecdotes to add color to the story... or, better yet, to spin out into a whole new story.
"And speaking of personalities..."
Carl's eye fell on Dr. John Smith, who was chatting merrily with a stunningly attractive woman in her early forties. The woman had a slim figure, long legs displayed to advantage in a perfectly professional but wonderfully brief skirt, and eyes and mouth set in an expression of eternal, almost mocking amusement.
"If that's his wife, I hate him even more than I did already," Carl muttered.
He edged toward an older man, clearly an academic, and tapped the man on the elbow. "Excuse me."
The man turned, his bespectacled eyes haughtily regarding Carl. "Can I help you?" he asked, his voice betraying his complete disinterest in providing any kind of assistance.
"Carl Kolchak, Independent News Service." Carl touched the brim of his hat. "Dr. - ah - Bowman, I presume."
The man's eyes flicked down to his lanyard, then back up at Carl. "So you can read as well as speak. I am impressed." He started to turn away.
"Dr. Bowman, that gentleman over there--" Carl pointed to Dr. Smith. "Dr. John Smith. What can you tell me about him?"
Bowman wrinkled his nose, as if scenting an aroma slightly less pleasant than the spray of a malevolent skunk.
"Oh, him." His voice resonated with disapproval. "Works with the United Nations in some capacity, I gather."
"I take it you're not a fan?"
"Oh, he's intelligent enough, I suppose," Bowman said grudgingly. "But... Well, you can tell all you need to know just by looking at the man. Self-aggrandizing, pretentious, and controversial for the sake of it. He's published a few minor articles over the past few years, which certain people in the academic community have made entirely too much of a fuss over."
From Bowman's indignant sniff, Carl guessed that controversy and "fuss" were things his work had never been burdened with.
"Thank you, Dr. Bowman. You've been a big help."
Bowman sniffed again, then started edging toward a group of middle-aged men Carl guessed to be university professors. To Carl's amusement, the professors found excuses to disperse as Bowman drew near.
Carl checked his suit pocket for his tape recorder, and pressed the "RECORD" button. He moved closer to Dr. Smith and the woman--identified by her nametag as "Professor Elizabeth Shaw"--hoping to overhear some of their conversation.
"I enjoy teaching," Professor Shaw was telling the Doctor. "It may not be as exciting as working with U--" She broke off then, and glanced sharply around the room. Carl turned away fast, scrutinizing the snack table with its array of pastries, crackers, and croissants.
"It's not as exciting as working with you was," the woman continued. "But at least I get to choose my own puzzles, and be the one to solve them. And you seem to have gotten along fairly well without me."
"I was assigned another assistant after you left," the Doctor replied. "We developed a good working relationship--after a somewhat rocky beginning, I'll admit."
"Oh?"
"Jo wasn't as qualified as you were, Liz. To be honest, my first impression of her was far from favorable. She was too young, too flighty, practically a child. I took her on as a burden and, at first, wished for nothing more than her departure." Carl noted the Doctor's wistful, melancholy tone, which belied his harsh words.
"So what happened?" Liz asked.
"I suppose I... I grew accustomed to her. She was with me for more than 3 years. It started to seem natural that she would be there, at my side, ready to - what was it you said, the day you left? - to 'hand me my test tubes and tell me how brilliant I was.'"
"She left." The Doctor nodded sadly. "You miss her."
"The lab seems much larger, colder, and emptier lately," he allowed. "More and more often, I find myself wondering why I stay. I don't have to stay anymore, you know. And if it comes to it, I really don't think Lethbridge-Stewart needs me as much as he used to."
"Perhaps you've become accustomed to being here," Liz suggested.
"Perhaps."
Carl discreetly stopped his tape and moved away from the conversation.
He felt vaguely disappointed. Here, he had thought Dr. Smith was a larger-than-life personality, someone who surely had a story behind him. But underneath the dandified clothes and regal bearing was nothing more than a lonely old man who missed his lab assistant and was thinking of quitting his job. All quite depressingly mundane.
"What's the matter, mate? Y' look like someone came down your chimney and stole yer Christmas." A cheerful Scots accent boomed out at Carl, and a beefy red-faced man grinned as he approached.
The big man thrust an oversized hand at Carl. "Geoff Mackenzie, Aberdeen Post Weekly."
"Carl Kolchak, INS--ah, Independent News Service," Carl replied, cringing slightly at Geoff's iron grip.
"Good to meet yeh, mate. So why the long face? What's the story?"
"There isn't one," Carl said. "I thought there might be, but..." He spread his hands helplessly and shrugged.
Geoff chuckled. "Aye, I know the feeling well. Still, at least you're lookin' for stories. Most of the young ninnies here seem to have forgotten they're even supposed to be journalists. Not like our day. Then it was hit the bricks and find a story - a good one - any way y' can. An' if it turns out y' can't... then hit the fuckin' road. Learned some hard knocks, as a cub reporter in Glasgow in the '40's. You?"
Carl nodded. "New York at the turn of the 1950's. Pretty much the same story, though."
"Aye. Well, it's surely nice to meet another dinosaur."
"Dinosaur?" Carl frowned.
"Yeah." Geoff pointed toward the front of the room. "Look down there, mate. Tell me what you see."
Carl followed Geoff's large finger, and scowled at the sight of several technicians, setting up video cameras and testing lighting and focus at the podium. Each camera carried a logo. Some Carl recognized: BBC, ITV, ABC. Others were completely foreign to him. But they all stood for the same thing. The lowest form of journalistic life.
"Television journalists," Carl spat.
"The future," Geoff countered. "The papers we write for, they're used to wrap fish and line kitty litter boxes. They're the ones people are gettin' their news from these days."
"Bah!" Carl replied. "A few pretty pictures, a few seconds talking to someone who's either too earnest or too hysterical, all wrapped up with a homily from some pretty idiots who wouldn't know a story if it bit them on the ass. That's not news, it's fast food!"
"People like fast food, mate. Like McDonald's in your country. It's quick, it's cheap, and nobody has to think too hard about what goes into it. That's the future. You an' me? We're just dinosaurs, waitin' for the meteor to hit."
Carl found himself with no reply. He glanced up at the clock. Only a few minutes left until 9. He checked his tape recorder again, then waited silently for Dr. Lloyd and his speech.
9:00 came, and 9:00 went, with no sign of Dr. Lloyd. The low murmur that permeated the conference hall took on an increasingly impatient note. Not too far away, Carl heard Dr. Bowman complaining about "charlatan upstarts." And as the minutes ticked by, the academics surrounding Dr. Bowman started to seem inclined to agree.
"Bad idea, keeping a room like this waiting," Carl remarked to Geoff.
The Scotsman just shrugged, seeming unconcerned. "Scientists. No real sense of punctuality, not like normal people."
Carl was about to reply, when the room suddenly went dead quiet. He saw a startled look on Geoff's face, and turned to follow the Scotsman's gaze.
Dr. Arthur Philip Lloyd stood just inside the doorway. Carl recognized him instantly from the photographs he had seen. But the Dr. Lloyd that stood here now had none of the self-possessed, easy confidence of the man in the photos. This Dr. Lloyd had a dazed, glassy look in his eyes. He wavered in the air, as if half-asleep. As he stumbled through the room, scientists and reporters alike backed away.
"My fault," Dr. Lloyd whimpered to himself, seemingly unaware of the crowd. "All my fault."
Clasped in his left hand was an obsidian black revolver.
"I'm sorry," he rambled in his whimpering voice. "I didn't know, I didn't mean to... I'm sorry!"
"What didn't you know?"
Carl was startled to hear this second voice, breaking into the quiet. He was even more surprised by the speaker - Dr. Smith had stepped out into the aisle that had opened itself around the troubled man. Even now the Doctor approached, his arms outstretched in a non-threatening gesture.
Dr. Lloyd looked up sharply, as if shocked to be addressed.
"Steady on, old man." The Doctor took another step forward. "Just look into my eyes and tell me what it is that you didn't know."
Dr. Lloyd shook his head. "My life, my... everything. I was wrong, I was so wrong. I'm sorry!"
"Why are you sorry?" Another step forward.
Carl raised his camera and snapped off a couple quick pictures of Dr. Lloyd, standing with the gun in his hand, and of Dr. Smith, approaching him. He wasn't the only reporter recovering from the shock. Camera clicks reverberated through the room, while flashbulbs popped like fireworks.
Dr. Lloyd blinked in the face of the flashes, backed away. He raised his gun.
"Stop!" The Doctor's voice. Not directed to the man with the gun, but to the crowd instead. The note of command in his voice was undeniable. To his own surprise, Carl found himself lowering his camera; over the course of the next three seconds, and under the Doctor's relentless glare, all the clicks and flashes stopped.
The Doctor turned back to Lloyd. "I want to help you, Dr. Lloyd."
"What?" Dr. Lloyd didn't quite seem to understand the words. "Help me? But I... no. The music." Whimpering again. "The music..."
"What music?"
"It's everywhere. Can't you hear it?"
"No, I can't. Tell me about it." Another step forward. Just two more steps...
"It's all around. It's angry with me. I didn't know!" Dr. Lloyd shouted at the air around him. "I didn't know!"
Then Lloyd recoiled and reeled backwards a step. Dr. Smith moved forwards a step to keep pace with him.
"I didn't... understand," Lloyd whispered, his face ash. "I was blind."
"Talk to me," the Doctor said, stretching out one hand as he stepped forward again. "Give me the gun, and tell me all about it."
Lloyd's eyes seemed to focus on the Doctor for the first time. He looked into the taller man's sincere, compassionate gaze. He started to hold the gun out. As he did so, Carl realized that he was actually holding his breath.
Then--
"No!" Dr. Lloyd shouted, and somewhere in the room a woman screamed.
Lloyd leveled the gun at the Doctor's chest. "Get away! Get away from me! Get away!"
The Doctor raised his arms up, away from Lloyd. "It's all right, old fellow. I'm not going to harm you."
"You don't understand!"
"Tell me," the Doctor said. "Just keep the gun on me, and tell me."
Dr. Lloyd shook his head. "I was blind," he said, tears falling from his eyes. "I was blind until the music came. And now..." And he grinned suddenly, beatifically. "Now I can see."
He lifted the gun again - pressing the muzzle firmly against the side of his own head.
"No!" the Doctor shouted, lunging forward.
But it was too late. The sound of the gunshot roared angrily through the room.
Dr. Arthur Philip Lloyd, one of the best and brightest of his generation, was dead.