Chapter 5. Hatter House
Special Agent Valerio Pazzo drove through the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, through the vast woods, toward a snow-covered log cabin in the brush called Hatter House, where there lived an unlikely trio of highly educated people, two men and one woman. The two men were considered dead by their professional peers, but the woman maintained her status as a professor. She took a sabbatical from her post at the University of Michigan to babysit the two men. She was the daughter of one of the men: the infamous writer, Ben Longstreet.
Pazzo's cell phone played a real-time broadcast from a surveillance bug planted in a living room lamp at Hatter House. Pazzo drove slowly in the dark, listening to the prattle coming from Longstreet and the Doctor. In the daily affairs of Hatter House, a constant volley of banter occurred in the living room where the Doctor and the writer hashed over every topic they could stumble upon. Between the Doctor's negative insolence and Longstreet's absurd enthusiasm, the flailing conversations stalled for weeks at a time on new types of science. However, due to the distractions each of them brought to the dialogue, the two men often dove into unrelated tangents, and hence rarely ever accomplished anything or drew any conclusions. For Longstreet, the arrival at results did not seem to matter as much as incessant verbal stimuli, through his scientific method of drivel. Even if his career had ended in general infamy, he seemed pleased, and often voiced his pleasure about being untethered to publishing contracts.
To these undying conversations, Pazzo listened with suspicion. He listened carefully to the recordings coming from the house and knew more about Hatter House than anyone else at the FBI.
In the passenger seat next to Pazzo laid a newspaper with the headline, "Another Scientist Disappears." His objective for the visit to Michigan involved getting a feel for the inside of the house. A series of kidnappings involving scientists started in India, but migrated to the United States, and Pazzo, with twenty years of experience from flatfoot cop to lead investigator, was tasked with finding out who was behind the kidnappings.
From surveillance photographs, Pazzo knew that Longstreet's daughter, Marie, worked in an office upstairs, presumably on grant writing for the University of Michigan's math department. Although he had no evidence against Marie, her absence from the conversation interested Pazzo more than the two washed-up fools on the main floor. Occasionally on the recordings, he could hear the sound of footsteps, but seldom did he hear her voice.
Marie Longstreet claimed to disagree with her father's terrorist views. To anyone who ever met Ben Longstreet, he came off as erratic, and because of it her career goals came under scrutiny several times. Ben rarely stopped speaking, but she rarely started, making her doubly questionable to Pazzo.
For awhile the house remained silent. Pazzo knew that Longstreet often quieted only to refuel with words and he never had to wait long. On this occasion, Longstreet burst into his first sentence, causing Pazzo to laugh as if he was listening to a radio show.
"Ants and robots, Doctor, I would like to talk about ants and robots now," Longstreet began. "You've heard of Hans Moravec, I hope. He was one of the great pioneers of robotics."
"Please," Gaveston replied.
"Please, indeed. You might note his words. It is certain, Doctor, that every individual organism has a desire to breed, a desire for self-continuation. Each organism has an instinctual interest for the survival of the members of its species. Mr. Hans Moravec pointed it out, quite well, I believe, in a brief statement about ants. You understand, Doctor, that ants have sometimes been observed as an altruistic species, giving up personal gain for the common good. In a sense, they are the apotheosis of communism, perfect socialists, if you like. The anthill is a concerted effort by one and all for the good of the colony - musketeers to the end! They have a profound sense of duty. You can call up the reserves by simply kicking at their little hill. You'll see a flurry of unselfishness pour out topside, all hands on deck. Kind of reminds me of Pearl Harbor when they start scrambling. They are an admirable lot, ants, aren't they, Doctor?"
"They are better than humans," Doctor Gaveston said, "but horribly uniform and live very unexciting lives. All work and no play. Come to think of it, I wish I had a magnifying glass so I could relive some childhood memories."
"Yes, a cherub you were," Longstreet said, "but truly, these ants - when not being tortured - represent conformity at its finest. But I put it to you that the ants are not being unselfish at all. On the contrary, they are engaging in the same act that any father would over a child, or a bird would over its nest. The ants are simply being selfish on a different scale. The queen is their only mother. One mother for all the ants, and as the only vessel of genes, she is the DNA of the colony. Without her, another colony of ants may never break ground. If the colony doesn't survive, the genes die. Do you believe in the selfish gene, Doctor Gaveston?"
"No more than Santa Claus."
"I disagree. A reproductive fury burns inside every living cell. From the bottom up, we are ambitious buggers. We must divide ourselves to create something new, just like cells. Our bodies, these cathedrals of mitosis, grow from greed. Our cells are the ants in the colony, guiding us Queens to find a mate and divide. Try this analogy: an ant is to a cell, as a colony is to your body. Cells protect the body, they build the body, and they even willingly impose death on themselves for the good of the body: they fall on their sword, Brutus, apoptosis! Only bad seeds, cancer cells, decide to live past the due date and thus screw it up for the rest of the stoics."
Pazzo drove slowly on the icy county roads, but not for safety reasons. He wanted to listen to Longstreet. Pazzo sipped on a large coffee and chuckled to himself. If nothing else, the surveillance bug in the house provided him with entertainment. Even on his few days off, he turned on his cell phone or connected to a secure website to listen to Longstreet and Gaveston argue. Longstreet's overeducation and overmedication made him a natural lunatic. In his younger days, he enjoyed the status of being a Pulitzer winner for a book on 'Magical Romanticism.' Later on, as a self-proclaimed futurist, Longstreet obtained his doctorate in biomedical physics and after his dissertation began writing bitter entreaties against science, which caught the FBI's attention. His name became a source of laughter in literary circles, except for the anarchists, who requested the writer to become their 'leader,' so to speak. Longstreet didn't accept the request of the anarchists. Instead, he derided them by saying they were "chained to their happy manacles of loitering non-participation, and therefore useless."
The file on the failed Doctor, Jeremy Gaveston, contained more comedy than tragedy. He ended his medical practice in 2011, along with his marriage, his mortgage, his credentials, and his association memberships. An ongoing affair with whiskey and Vicodin replaced it all. He stayed buzzed throughout the waking hours of life. Before his crash, the addiction had gone on for two decades, until his nurses and secretaries became overwhelmed, particularly when patients began asking about the Doctor's psychological health. Gaveston assured them all of his sound constitution by giving bonuses to everyone in his employment. For a long time, generosity allowed for his continuation of drinking. His appetites never caught up to him until his last patient. In the final day at the office, he consumed more than he intended. Then again, an alcoholic has no intention beyond getting drunk. Dr. Gaveston was discovered in an examination room, unconscious, and surrounded by broken glass. The scene alone was enough to have his practice closed down, but to make matters worse, the redheaded college lad in the room with him was as high as the good Doctor, and equally naked.
Longstreet and Gaveston met in a rehabilitation center and became partners. Upon release, they moved their public problems to a private location. Longstreet invited the Doctor to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Gaveston, fully alienated from his professional and personal acquainta
nces, readily accepted. Because he drank so heavily, Gaveston provided the perfect blank slate for Longstreet's endless wordstream. Every evening Gaveston drank himself into a blackout and listened to Longstreet repeat some of the same ideas, yet Gaveston always reacted like it was the first time.
Longstreet continued, "This makes me consider my divisions of life. Clearly, I should want to reproduce myself as often as possible, yet I have only one daughter. In this respect, I have disappointed my cells. Or perhaps, again like ants, the cells inside me can sense that the world is becoming overpopulated and therefore do not want me to reproduce any more than I already have."
"I raise my glass to your cells," Gaveston said, "and may Zeus strike you impotent."
"Were you a Toastmaster, sir?" Longstreet mocked. "Now, at some point, as our population becomes too much for this little planet, if Thomas Malthus was at all correct with his theories about overpopulation, perhaps our cells will realize the overcrowding. Once enough bodies gather on earth, perhaps an electromagnetic impulse will bring our desire to reproduce under control, wilt the doodles, jar the ovums, and then offspring will come only by government control. Imagine if one species of ants conquered the entire planet so that they permeated all land and soil. If they kept growing in size, other species would die off and then, and then, and then what? Would the ants stop to think of other species?"
Pazzo heard the sound of ice jingling in an empty glass.
Gaveston said, "They would turn to cannibalism much like any other species. They already eat each other. Those little fiends are as vicious as anything else. Altruism! Only humans could come up with that kind of bullshit. Altruism is an abomination to nature. No predator stops to think about the good of another species. That shows you where humans are at - we're in decline. The war of nature is unending, continuous. Do you think bears stop eating salmon because they worry about population control? They stop because they are full to the eyeballs. If you want to see ruthless competition, watch a patch of prairie grasses choke, tear, and strangle each other for a place in the sun. I remember one of your poems about cottonwoods, Ben, those falling seeds, so beautiful to you at the time. Let me tell you, that's not a peaceful offering to the earth. It's the cottonwoods version of sprawl, a carpet bombing, imperialism. Nature is a vicious project all the way down to the leaves of grass. Even moss wants to dominate the world. Moss crawls like a parasite up any static object, to steal the sun for itself. Moss is a great opportunist, like a venereal disease. There is nothing beautiful about nature, unless you enjoy pain. Trust me on this, Longstreet: if humans become the only living species on earth, and all has gone the way of the Dodo, we'll begin canning and eating Soylent Green. Read the history of Ireland sometime. It's full of homo culinary, if you get my drift."
"Doctor, your drift," Longstreet said, "is as elusive as a Michigan snowbank. Allusion has never been a strong suit for you. But listen..."
Pazzo heard their voices waning as Gaveston and Longstreet moved toward the kitchen. To hear them more clearly, Pazzo turned up the volume on his phone.
Gaveston said, "I need a refill."
"Listen now," Longstreet said, "you'll see I'm getting somewhere."
"You said that yesterday."
"But you'll see that I have come up with some new ideas regarding why the mind is pushing us so hard. As the old religious platitude goes: 'Everything happens for a reason.' Well, perhaps it does. Everything happens for reproduction. Humans have two unquenchable desires: power and knowledge. The drive for power is a means of facilitating reproduction, and the thirst for knowledge is for efficient reproduction. If humans had only a thirst for power, then once the earth became populated, a tyrannical slaughtering would be the only means for resource management. War isn't doing enough for us anymore. Disease is losing its battle against modern health care. I have no doubt that power is pushing knowledge right now toward an idea - and that idea is this: to colonize the galaxy."
"Stupidest thing I've ever heard."
"Yes." Longstreet paused. "Yes!"
"Ridiculous."
"Yes, I'm telling you, and yes, I said yes. Physicists and theologians believe they are searching and learning about the cosmos for benign reasons, but it is nothing more than an instinct from within that wants us to reproduce."
"You're obsessed with reproduction," Gaveston said. "You should visit Match.com instead of your usual smutty websites."
"Better yet," Longstreet replied, "better than a date, I need a method, a vessel, a cosmic thermos to convey my genes into outer space, into the deepest corners of the universe. I've long wondered if in fact a seed was not the first cell on earth. A seed sent from another planet."
The Doctor shuddered. "You think the first bacterium came from a seed? Goodness, man, this argument has been dead for fifty years. Lab experiments can reproduce the conditions necessary for life to spring forth. All you need is a few variables: water, ultraviolet light, nitrogen, oxygen. It's not a matter of 'how the first one got here.' It's a natural process. You sound like a creationist."
"I am a creationist! But not that kind. I'm a Panspermian creationist. I believe that a seed with intergalactic microbes reached earth eons before we saw the first paramecium or wiggling flagellum. These microbes acted like a molecular assembler. I'm going to write a letter to NASA, the Center for Disease Control, Congress, and the Weekly World News. We need to start thinking about this now, because if the apocalypse comes, we need to have our pods ready to deliver DNA far, far away. Here's my vision of stellar colonization: when human inhabitance of the earth is no longer viable, a jar of nanoscopic cells will be launched into space and exploded, sending billions of these seeds on well-defined vectors toward every known star and region of space. These microscopic seeds will guide themselves toward their destination. While in flight through space the seeds will self-replicate, spawning an identical seed to travel on a new vector. This way, each seed will send out thousands of its own replications to every visible body in the universe. Once a seed lands, if it isn't burned up, if it is not crushed by gravity, the seed will lay dormant on the host planet, and remain dormant until the conditions for life are met. As you've said, Doctor, we already know the conditions that must exist for sustaining life as we know it, thus our seed will have a built-in recognition device, much like an insect that stays in the ground. It will emerge after years of incubation when the temperature gets to be sixty-eight degrees. The seed will start assembling cells from the elements available in its surroundings. Yes, the seed will assemble one man and one woman."
Pazzo turned off the lights on his car and pulled into the driveway of Hatter House. He got out of the vehicle quietly, crept up to a window and looked in at Longstreet and Gaveston. He held the cell phone to his ear and kept listening as he watched.
Gaveston paused. "Like a second Genesis."
"Yes," Longtreet said, "another page in 'The Chicken and the Egg' argument! Perhaps the chicken was first because it was self-assembled. We are probably the descendants of another species that preserved itself in this manner, some intelligent life form that directed their cells here to Earth."
"That's not going to happen, nor did it ever," Gaveston said. "I see something much more rational happening, something dull. When we render this piece of floating dirt uninhabitable, we will probably just load up a spacecraft and orbit this planet. We'll orbit long enough for the planet to fix itself, at which time we will return to Earth and start destroying it again."
"That's boring," Longstreet said, "but I expected nothing more from you. However, one thing intrigues me about that. It would be a terrific religious experiment. On Earth we look up to the heavens and yearn for heaven; Zion; paradise. But if we end up in your orbiting spaceship, wou
ldn't the opposite be true? Those poor souls on the orbiting spaceship would look down at Earth and think of heaven. Heaven will become a place on Earth. Fantastic idea, Doctor. If that's true, Belinda Carlisle will become a new-age hymnstress. Remember the song, 'Heaven is a place on Earth'?"
Longstreet began to sing.
Pazzo laughed and covered his mouth. He moved toward the front door, where he rapped sharply three times. Through a small window on the door, he saw Longstreet jump in the air, giving Pazzo reason to believe that Longstreet's self-declared agoraphobia, his fear of the outdoors, was credible. Until that moment, Pazzo thought Longstreet was using the condition as an alibi. Pazzo kept the phone to his ear as he watched the two men argue.
"Go answer the door," Longstreet said to Gaveston. "Don't be rude and stand there swirling that slop. Go on."
Gaveston did not move.
"Go on now, you old donkey," Longstreet admonished. "You can lead an ass to whiskey, and all he'll do is drink. You've become a sot, old man, completely disheveled and broken. What type of man are you? Look at yourself. You look like shit. Your hair is a mess, your stomach round, your t-shirt stained." Longstreet groomed Gaveston. "Good God, did you take the Hippocratic Oath or the Hippo's? Jesus, man. Let me fix your collar. You look awful. Try to be presentable when you answer the door, you sullen nag of a wench."
Pazzo rapped on the door again.
Longstreet switched subjects. He moved around the kitchen in baby steps. "Well, at least turn down the lights if you've killed your brain with that slurry. At least help me turn the lamps down."
"Whoever it is," Gaveston said, "they've already seen the lamps, Ben."
"Well!" Longstreet jerked backwards at Gaveston's reply, as if someone shot him. "The Great Obviator speaks! Do you think I didn't know that the visitor saw the lamps? Have you considered that he might be an old friend who has come to return a favor?"
Again, Pazzo knocked three times.
"You see?" Longstreet said. "He's not going away. He's standing out there with the deer and black bears. For all we know he's being chased and seeks refuge, yet you sit here in your pompous glory, grogged to the eyeballs with that slag, standing as if your zeroed rank exceeds mine and the rest of mankind, when in reality you've been stripped of all rank, save your breath."
Another knock.
The Doctor shrugged and took a drink. "Fuck it."
"A shrug and a fuckit for all things, says you, spore of Michigan. You know that my medical condition disallows me from answering that door." Longstreet's voice rose in volume. "Is this house nothing but a place for you to wipe your feet and ass, you liter of black bile? Does the protection of my daughter mean nothing to you? A serial rapist may be on the other side of that door, and will you not, at the very least, look out the window to see what he looks like?"
Gaveston did not move.
"Just let the killer in! I would rather die than wonder any longer." He picked up a corkscrew and put it in Gaveston's hand before presenting his vulnerable neck. "I implore you!"
Through the window, Pazzo saw a pair of white-socked feet come skipping down the staircase into the living room.
Longstreet screamed, "Who's there?!"
"Don't worry, Dad," said Marie Longstreet. "I'll get the door. You two are unbelievable. Honestly, how pathetic."
"Now you see," said Longstreet, as he poked Gaveston in the shoulder. "She has more balls than you do. Pardon the sexism, dear. It's reverse sexism, I promise. Perhaps I should say, she has more bowels than you. But then that's very gassy. There must be a better word..."
The Doctor said, "Try asinine."
"Try strychnine," Longstreet shouted. "You punning booze-muffin!"
Marie opened the door. The Doctor and the writer stayed hidden in the kitchen. The Doctor continued to drink while Longstreet curled his neck around the corner of the pantry to catch a glimpse of the visitor.
"I'm sorry," Marie said, "I don't recognize you. Should I?"
"I'm Agent Pazzo, FBI."
Longstreet jumped out from the kitchen. "Agent Pazzo, Mamma mia! What brings you to the U.P.? It's been so long; I thought you might never come back to see me. I was worried that my name had been erased from the files of the FBI."
"Sorry to disappoint you." Agent Pazzo smiled at Ben, and then squared his police jaw. "For your information, Ben, your name will never, ever be out of our files. In fact, all of you in this house are in the files, and you all know why."
"I'm on file?" Marie asked. "Just because I'm his daughter?"
"That's right," Pazzo said. "Your brilliant father here, with his adaptation of life to..." Pazzo paused to look around Hatter House before continuing, "...whatever you call this, he has indicted all of you for connections with a potential terrorist." He drew out his words, pronouncing everything with a Marine Corps inflection. "Unfortunately, since I had the privilege of seeing Mr. Longstreet in action around the rehab center, I know that he is no more of a threat to national security than abstract artwork."
Marie nodded. "You are right about that. He just likes to make things up."
"Yes he does," Pazzo said. "He's a first-class bullshitter. That's good, because we have some talking to do. May I sit down for a moment?"
Longstreet ran over to clear off the living room table and chairs. Even while running toward Pazzo, he started talking. "I believe you are referring to my sanity. That's fine. It's true that my sanity is limited. For me to function on this side of the frontier of reason is an impossibility. Reality does not appeal to me at all. I find no excitement in what is already known. To spend a life refining facts that have already been discovered by someone else's mind, that holds no excitement for me. If I were to place myself in history, a Greek is what I'd be, because I am a malcontent for what is known. Like the great Thales of Miletus looking at the eclipse. He didn't just want to know when the eclipse was coming, he wanted to know why. 'Why' is so much better than 'when.' 'How' is better than 'what.' I live only in concepts, theories, and explanations. Nonsense to some - essential to me. Lucidity is not my field. I once considered suicide when I had to pay an electric bill. I just couldn't bring myself to do it. Pay the bill, that is. Frankly, it frightens me to take the time to write out a check, because during the entire exercise, I wonder how many thoughts I wasted in worrying about the bill. You could say I'm a glamour hound, always sniffing."
"Sniffing at zippers," said Gaveston.
"Well, love is my other vice," Longstreet said, "but I never touch the stuff." He wagged his finger in the air. "It's dangerous to me. Love thieves my thoughts. Think of the history of the love poem, the volumes composed, all the thought and emotion poured into bad sonnets and weepy lyrics. What has that effort accomplished, other than a sexual response? Every love poem, or passion poem, goes something like this: 'Have I distracted you enough yet? Ok, now lie down.' (Once again, Doctor Gaveston, love poetry is a reproductive act, a power urge.) Sex is the fruit of the love poem, which of course is a very sweet fruit, not to be downplayed by any great lover. And I am a great lover, although only by proxy: I do all my loving from afar."
"Afar, online, and after midnight," Gaveston said. "What Ben means by 'love' is clicking the refresh button on Craigslist - Detroit personal ads. He's addicted to casual encounters of the nerd kind."
"Never mind him, Pazzo. So I dabble online. So what? It's harmless fun, a victimless crime. My orgasm is in the foreplay. I have a relationship disability. The brief pleasure of intercourse doesn't thrill me enough to follow through on anything. To combine sex with my
physical and mental condition, no, that would be cruel to anyone because I'm too swollen with ideas."
From the kitchen, Gaveston shouted. "Coitus Elephantiasis Psychosis."
The writer turned and yelled. "Thank you, Doctor Bubbles." He said to Pazzo, "Apparently my condition has a medical name. Agent Pazzo, surely you are not a love poet. You are far too stern. You have the soldier's look, or that of a weathered stone."
Again, Gaveston yelled. "His face looks like the surface of the moon. Did you have acne as a teenager?"
Before Pazzo could respond, Longstreet spoke. "You have a Samuel Beckett face, but without the psychotic glow. You're like Mount Rushmore at night. There's also something beaverish about your mouth. It's almost like a short snout."
"Such compliments," said Agent Pazzo dryly as he straightened up in his chair. "Do all of your guests receive such hospitality?"
"We don't have many visitors at Hatter House," Marie said. "The Doctor gets abusively drunk at times. Don't you, Jeremy?"
"That's correct," Gaveston said. "As for you, Longstreet the Younger, with your unwelcome comments, you will be glad to know that I'm pouring myself another glass of abuse right now."
Longstreet pulled up a chair next to Pazzo. "Am I a suspect in the kidnappings?" His eyes brightened. "Is that why you've made this unannounced late-night visit?"
"No, you're not a suspect," said Pazzo, as he simultaneously cased the living room. "But I do want to hear your thoughts on it. You are the creator of this type of terrorism."
"Terrorism?" exclaimed Longstreet, shifting in his seat. "I've never considered it to be terrorism."
"Maybe you don't call it that, but the FBI does."
"Well, the label is inappropriate. A misnomer. A spin. A malapropist's catachresis. Of course, it makes sense that you call it that. Everything is terrorism to you these days. A legitimate casualty of war is called terrorism these days. Any death not sponsored by the US government - terrorism! We need to create a new term for terrorism, since you've hijacked it. Pardon the joke. Puns and Freudian slips are normally Gaveston's bag, not mine. I told you before, Mr. Pazzo, writing about 'terrorism' is nothing compared to carrying it out. You can't blame me for writing. Everyone is a writer these days. Anyone can drag a pen across a page, just like any dog can drag his ass across a carpet...and...and...as a sidebar, let me point out that a dog does that in order to..."
"I don't need the image." Pazzo interrupted with a wave of his hand. "Use whatever term you like: terrorist, KillJoy, Blocker, freedom-fighter. I'm a cop on duty. A kidnapping is a kidnapping, whether done by a bully or bleeding-edge technology. Ideologies don't concern me."
"Liar!" Gaveston said. "Except for the American way. That's your ideology, copper. If you haven't figured out that you work for big business yet, then your head is so far up your crack that you don't deserve..."
Longstreet raised his voice and spoke over Gaveston, to save Pazzo from the insult. "Yes, the word is Blocker! So nice to hear a public official use it. Thank you, sir. My opinion of law enforcement is restored to respectability whenever I see you." Longstreet turned to Gaveston, who was now leaning against the kitchen doorway, and said, "Notice, Doctor, how the cut and dry sense of duty gleams off of Agent Pazzo like chrome." Longstreet looked back at Pazzo. "I admire the hell out of it." He paused. "Yet it disturbs me. He dedicates himself to a cause without worrying about the underlying reason. He's like a classic character for our cynical times, almost as if he walked right out of a Hoplite phalanx to spend some time with us here today. Did you bring your shield along with you, Agent Pazzo? May I see your spear?"
"I brought my gun."
"Oh, a gun," Longstreet said with disappointment. "You brought your bang-bang. I wish that you carried a broadsword or a cutlass. Guns are so abrupt and inglorious. Boom! You're dead. A sword, on the other hand, is artful. A swordfight looks like music and dying takes some time. It gives you a moment for famous last words. Imagine Hamlet ending in a shotgun blast: GSW to the chest! We got a tragic hero down! A gunfight, blech, it's just geometry. Come to think of it, gunpowder and math killed the classics. But I won't go into that now. Here we are, Agent Pazzo. You've come all this way to discuss kidnappings and Blockers. You know, when I wrote the Manifesto, everyone laughed."
"Some of us are still laughing," Gaveston said.
"Well," Pazzo said, "Some of us aren't laughing anymore."
Longstreet brought his legs up onto his chair. "I knew the minute I read the article about the kidnappings that something strange had started. The anti-science movement is underway. On one hand, I want to see technological Armageddon, but I'm not as mad as when I wrote it anymore. I enjoy my evenings on Craigslist, not to mention popping Xanax. I'm still cheering for Earth to win, to shake us off like fleas, but I'm not yelling as loud anymore."
"So many life-improving inventions," Gaveston mumbled, "so many anti-depressants."
Pazzo said, "The Brio-Nano accident was over eight years ago now. I'm not happy to admit that we never found out who did it. What I want to know from you is pretty simple. Do you think there is a connection between Brio-Nano and the kidnappings?"
"Yes," Longstreet laughed, "I think the monkeys are the kidnappers."
"I wish that were true," said Pazzo.
"The Brio-Nano block was so clean that I wouldn't be surprised if there was a connection," Longstreet said. "That outfit knew what they were doing."
Pazzo asked, "And what was your first impression on hearing about the kidnappings?"
"Pleasure. In a sense. Along with horror. I mean, it's distasteful, but mostly I had an odd sense of pleasure, because my idea has come to life. Someone has set the stage for the great play. These are interesting times to be living in. The next war will be over public opinion. The public is going to be molded like clay, by governments, by scientists, and by 'terrorists,' as you call them. The public is a toy, more than ever, to be manipulated by corporate giants and anonymous rebels. Those that have done the kidnappings, they are the only opposition to unbridled progress. We will have runaway Artilects built in two decades. Forget about Global Warming as the issue that threatens our species. Strong artificial intelligence coupled with human mania, Agent Pazzo, will be here long before the heat."
"Those that did it?" Pazzo interjected. "How many Killjoys do you think it would take to do something like this? In your manifesto, you said that these Blockers act alone."
"Did I say that?" Longstreet looked down at his thumbs and up again. "I never remember exactly what I said. A figure of speech I suppose. Really, I can only assume that more than one Blocker exists in the world, because so far we have only seen the Brio-Nano instance and now the kidnappings. But we're talking about multiple kidnappings, from all over the world, right? They have to be funded pretty well. It's either a government or a business doing it."
"You don't have to tell me what I already know, Mr. Longstreet. I want to know if you have any ideas on suspects for this type of attack, and I want to know what targets could be following this. I know that you have your own ideas in that squirrelly brain of yours. I am only half as concerned about the previous kidnappings as I am about the next one."
Pazzo observed the writer swell with pride at the comment.
"Well, you know what they say," Longstreet said, "the busy bee has no time for sorrow. Of course I have ideas, Agent Pazzo, but my brain can't query databases like your police computers can."
"Humor me."
"Well...for starters, these kidnappers aren't going to have any criminal records. If you think the Brio-Nano criminals are the kidnappers, you might as well start looking for chemical engineers who worked at Brio or had a friend working there. The angriest people at an industry are usually within the industry itself. The key is to fi
nd the Broker of these kidnappings, who will be a respected individual, not some stoner with a grudge against the world. Those eco-terrorists you try to wrangle: they can't even spray paint a straight line on a Humvee, let alone carry out multiple kidnappings. Think Unabomber, only imagine the Unabomber as functional in society rather than holed up in some cabin, like I am out here at Hatter House."
In a nonchalant stagger, Gaveston entered the living room. He said to Agent Pazzo, "A good man is hard to find, sir."
"If you don't have any hard ideas, then I'll be in touch, rather often." Leaning forward in his seat, Pazzo extended a business card to Longstreet. "I would like you to think about this and get back to me. Here's my new contact card. And this time, don't make any midnight phone calls to tell me about dolphins."
"I dreamed that dolphins would evolve quickly and soon. I swear to Moses, I just thought that you should know."
"A dream, Ben. Don't tell me about your dreams." Pazzo pointed at Longstreet. "If - and only if - you have an epiphany about what's possible, call me..."
"Possible!" chortled Gaveston. "Possible? Why bother with the word 'possible' at all anymore? Listen up, Agent Crazy: anything is possible. You've lived nearly as long as I have. You should have learned that by now. Reality is not what it used to be. Tomorrow morning I could set up a lab to tweak embryos so that babies expressed two heads at birth. That's the type of world we live in today."
Agent Pazzo gave a curt nod to the Doctor and remained calm on the surface, although Gaveston was beginning to irritate him.
"Pazzo. Pazzo," Longstreet said, tapping on his chin. "Yes, that means 'Crazy' in Italian, is that correct? Perhaps you would fit in very well here! My daughter loves fruits and nuts."
"Yes," Marie nodded at Pazzo. "I love wasting the best years of my career waiting for two insane men to die."
"But what's the alternative, dear?" Longstreet asked. "Would you rather assist in the destruction of mankind along with the other scientists that are making human beings obsolete?"
"Do you hear that, Mr. Pazzo?" Marie asked. "That's the sloshing sound that comes from the washed-up and weathered. My father, who has already concluded his career, mocks those of us midstream in our own careers, but he can only do so because he has lost sight of what originally made him want to learn literature and physics. His thirst for knowledge has been quenched. Now, he makes idle chit-chat and feels superior to the rest of us. He preaches all day about how important learning is, yet half the time he argues that progress is a destructive force, when in fact progress as we know it and the education system are inseparable."
"Oh, now...dear girl," Longstreet said, as if beginning a rebuttal, but he stopped. "Yes, I suppose that's true."
Longstreet continued talking about pulse vectors, dimensional ranges, and various other pseudo-sciences, conjurations, and rantings. In the end, he suggested to Pazzo that a company was running a slave-based research facility, a kind of PhD sweatshop.
For another hour, Pazzo remained inside Hatter House and listened, feeling certain that an element of guilt made its home among them. As time went on, Pazzo's fuse got shorter. Gaveston kept needling him. Marie Longstreet made several caustic remarks toward Agent Pazzo, to which he returned a steely glare. As soon as the writer and the Doctor became fully sidetracked away from the kidnappings, Pazzo stood up and said goodbye.
"I'll show myself out."
"Allow me to show you the way," Marie said. "Anyone who endures these two, even for an hour, should be sent away with a goodbye from a normal person."
"Normal!" Gaveston chortled.
Marie said, "That's enough from you for tonight."
"I appreciate your hospitality," said Agent Pazzo.
Marie opened the door and followed Pazzo outside.
"I'll turn the light on for you," she said.
"Thank you."
"You know," Marie said with her arms folded, "I respect the fact that you have a case to solve, but my father is here to get well, and your visit will only rattle his cage. Now he won't sleep for several days and will become totally paranoid over what the government wants from him. If you need to see him again, please call in advance, or contact me discreetly."
Pazzo sighed. "Fine, Miss Longstreet. Just know that your father is partially responsible for this brand of terrorism. I could easily hold him as a material witness for as long as I want."
"Oh yes, the Patriot Act." She rolled her eyes. "Spare me. If you want a copy of the Manifesto, I can get you one. We have a whole box of them in the house. That's all you're going to get out of my father at this point in his life."
Pazzo took a step toward Marie and spoke softly. "I can't help but wonder what effect having a Luddite for a father has had on you. Having to listen to views of anti-science your entire life, and from a respected person of society, no less. And then, oddly enough, you end up in science. Almost seems a little too much like the Blocker he describes in the Manifesto, doesn't it? So tell me, Marie, what 'Block' have you dedicated your life to? When can I expect to hunt you down?"
"Oh, I see," she said. "You're investigating me, not my father."
Pazzo smirked and took several steps away from Marie as if leaving, but then he turned back toward her. "Oh, one other thing. How's your old boyfriend, Marcus Jovan?"
"I knew him. So what?"
"Have you always preferred older men?"
Marie stood without moving a muscle. She smiled defiantly. "Agent Pazzo, my sex life is none of your business. I'm sure if you check with your boys, you'll find out that Marcus Jovan gets around. Don't waste your time on me. I'm a dead-end. If it helps you get off the property any faster, I will tell you this: Marcus and I had a one-night-stand. Now go kick around in someone else's closet."
"Was he a KillJoy in the sack?" Pazzo smiled.
"Next time you come here, you'd better have a warrant."
Agent Pazzo walked to his car with a smug expression. At the time, Pazzo was somewhat young and still sure-footed. He was certain that he would solve the case quickly.
His cell phone hummed in his pocket. He took it out and looked at the incoming text message:
Search Initiated: December 20, 2016 21:13 CST
Name: Marshall Ploof, MD, PhD
Keywords: Blocker, Manifesto, Longstreet
Location: Highland Park, IL
IP Address: 12.161.135.142