XLI: Transverse City
Years ago, in medical school, he had written the words that he pronounces now, and he feels a certain strange satisfaction in repeating them. " 'With the right education, belief in progress is not a problem for anyone,' " Marvin Candle tells his breakfast companion, handing the coffee pot over. "Disloyalty is simply ignorance. Remember that."
Just like the last time, when he had given the lecture, his words have not been understood, and it is all he can do not to force out a censure at that. He has chosen well, but occasionally the thickheadedness he has to encounter irritates him. This has not been the case with the first recruits, the rich wastrels that he had long ago picked up throughout the world – New York, London, Riyadh – but it is the case here. He does not understand why. His choice of help now is no different.
He settles back in the armchair, pausing sharply, his hands resting lightly on his lap. He glances towards his informant, smiling thinly. "Tell me, does the island seem fulfilling? Are you happy with your life here?"
There is a pause at that. He knows it is a telling pause. His subordinate hesitates, looks nervous, covers it up with a smile. "Of course. I mean," throat-clearing commences, "it's all right. But I just – "
He is not in the mood to be lectured by someone who does not understand the project. He cuts the informant off, shaking his head. His features barely move, not particularly cracking the cast of expression in which he has set them. "We have arranged every detail of the project. We have created this painstakingly. We have scaled work to the individual capacities of the people that we have chosen. We have studied them; we have analyzed them; we have been watching them for fifteen years now. You cannot say that we have not been preparing for this."
"I know you have. I just wanted to say that I don't think…"
"Exactly." Candle taps his hands against one another. "Haven't we done what we could for you before?" A nod. "And haven't we always lived up to our promises? Your life changed for the better, didn't it?" Another nod, more hesitant this time. Candle decides that it will not be expedient to inform his informant of all the details, and that turn of phrase amuses him. He almost smiles. Not quite. But he comes closer than he has for a long while. "We cannot stop this now. It has already started. We were lucky enough to purchase the military base and convert it, and we could not allow that to go to waste."
He takes a bite of the omelet, and notices that one of the other omelets, his subordinate's, has barely been touched, although the third is being eaten quite rapidly by the Irishman. The uneaten omelet concerns him. How much has been happening at the camps? He has watched enough footage to know that their subjects are not behaving properly. The father has not left the camp as they have expected to, and he figures there is some scientific term for that. There is some scientific cause, too; he knows it is the psychologist's fault. That was a risk, to include that sort of person in the midst of their research group, but they have placed her there with the subjects for her reports. Those reports have not come. He is not a research scientist, but, really, none of them are; he is the closest. He will come up with the terminology for it when it comes time to present his findings to the Esfandiary Group at Dharma. "You must eat. You'll waste away to nothing."
A scoffing sound. "Right." A few bites of the omelet, then, but they are not relished. That is surprising. "We've got none of this sort of stuff there, you know."
"Which has its benefits."
That brings a snort. "Yeah, right. Do you know how much I miss omelets?"
He can guess. He does not see any reason to inform the subordinate of his guess. There is no reason to start an argument and alienate the one person within the camp that has been reliable. Instead, he finishes his own omelet, picks his napkin from his lap, dabs at his mouth before setting the napkin down on the table. Everything must be correct, and it is.
"We thank you for the money you have provided us to create this." and for which we have rewarded you by damning your life so much that even if you wanted to stop helping us, you wouldn't, "and for your assistance in our efforts." He has recited this a few times, and he knows it sounds recited, but he feels the need to reassure his compatriot of that. "You made a wise choice coming to us with your money, and that choice is being rewarded. You have friends in the camp. They all like you. You have done an admirable job ingratiating yourself. See to it that you are not losing focus." There is a long pause. Candle tilts his head at the other. His acquaintance meets his gaze, and that pleases him. "You know what the Initiative is for. You attended the lectures, even if you slept through them. You know what will come of it. You agreed to help us even though we cannot help you. For that, we are grateful."
The subordinate nods, smiling at the compliment. He probably had not heard the rest of it, Candle figures. "Hey, listen, so, Libby: She says she knows you." Long hair tilts. Curiosity. "How?"
Candle pauses. His hands steeple. "We worked together."
The obvious question follows. He has expected it. "Is she working for you now?"
Despite his expectation, he is momentarily uncertain of how to answer that, but pauses just long enough to wonder before looking like he's uncertain. "No more than you are," he says, and it is the truth. He need not tell the young man about how his psychologist was made of psychological whole cloth, orchestrated to meet him and then to encounter him again on the island. The young man already knows how the supposed crash was orchestrated, knows now that the numbers were given him by a plant, and that is fine. That is all that the fellow should know. Candle himself certainly does not need to tell him about how the woman has taken a different course. Instead, he pauses a moment, smiling blandly. "You said you had something for me?"
The young man nods. His smile broadens. He reaches into his knapsack, extracting a book, and hands it over without comment.
"Ah, yes. I remember this. We put it there in hopes that they would find it and take the advice. Libby should recognize it too. But you said she gave it to you? More evidence for her disloyalty. Her ignorance, like I said before." Candle flips open a few pages. "I don't remember this inscription." He hands the book to his other side, to the Irishman sitting there. "Did you write it, Desmond?"
The Irishman stares at the page and nods, slowly, sitting up from eating his omelet to glance at the manual. " 'My friend, may God not weaken your hand,' " he translates, before supplying weakly, "It's a proverb. A sayin'; that's all."
"We are searching for ways to strengthen people, and you can only talk about weakening. You will not progress with that sort of recalcitrant attitude, but they will. As we speak, we have begun the process with Mr. Ford."
He thinks that Reyes flinches at that. A note of sympathy, perhaps. He wonders at that. He will address it with the young man in private, however, rather than spare him the embarrassment of being called out in company. The nouveau riche has given them a lot of money, too much to publicly insult him, but they have provided for him: They have promised him salvation from all the incidents of his past, events which they had orchestrated to get the young millionaire into their fold.
He continues: "Once he is uploaded, we will be able to effectively determine whether he is a success. Even if he is not, he has nothing to live for anyway. So he will not be much of a sacrifice to the goals for which we have strived on this island."
The two others watch him. A silent moment passes, as the gravity of Ford's situation hits them. He allows them that much of a pause. The obese young man shrinks away slightly; Desmond instead looks quite interested in the particulars.
"And as for the rescue party, well – they have picked up the truck. It seems neither bullets nor maser projections stopped them, but it would appear the people we chose are quite obstinate. In any case, they are heading right for us. It appears that we will recoup our losses, including Ford if necessary, and that we will do so very soon indeed. Eat your omelet, Hugo. You don't want to starve."
The young man straightens his spine and squares his shoulders at that, as if Candle has said something to offend him. He takes another bite of the omelet, but he clearly is not yet enjoying it. All the same, his words are suitably emphatic. "Dude, if I was starving, I'd buy our way off the island. All of us. Even you."