Chapter 24: Riddles
Citizen Gregory Michaels laid on his back, head propped up on a pillow in an incredibly soft bed. In spite of the luxury in which he lived, it was near 3:00 AM, and his eyes were wide open, staring at the dark ceiling of his room. He had not slept at all because his mind would not be silent. He couldn't stop it from stumbling around, blindly looking for an answer to the riddle which plagued his thoughts.
Of course, he had stared at it for so long during the evening that it had become etched in his mind. He could see the words burning in bright letters every time he closed his eyes.
Only one in color, but not one in size,
Stuck firm to the ground, yet easily flies,
Present in sun, but seldom in rain,
Doing no harm, and feeling no pain.
As always, his mind provided a deep, sinister-sounding narrator to voice the riddle. Perhaps because it was 3:00AM and he hadn't slept at all, but that voice made him shudder.
Once more, as the riddle finished its dark trail through his thoughts, the consideration began once more. In spite of the knowledge that he was terrible at this sort of thing, his mind, unbidden, still ran with it, and he began the internal discussion anew.
Perhaps it refers to grass.
Well, yes, grass is most often green and blades come in different sizes. It sticks to the ground, but when pulled or cut gets "flies" by the wind, but…
Why would it be seldom in rain? That makes no sense.
Maybe it could mean too much rain; that kills grass.
Too rational for a riddle, too many maybes. Not grass.
What if it's a plant species that thrives in dry climate?
Too obscure for a riddle. You shouldn't need obscure knowledge to figure it out.
Why not?
On, and on it went.
Let's figure out a portion of it. What doesn't feel pain?
Plants don't feel pain.
No, no, no! It's not going to be vegetation-related. Think intangibly! More conceptual!
Fine. How about light?
Yes, present in sun, not usually in rain, but nothing else fits.
Frustrated again, Michaels cursed angrily and bid his weary mind to cease. Obedient as always, the voices fell silent. They always did, for a little while. Then he would close his eyes, and the riddle would blaze through. Of course then the speculation would start once again until he grew weary of the internal argument.
On, and on it went. He had ruled out dozens of suggestions, many of them too stupid to contemplate. Air, gravity, flower petals, wind, snow, radiation, the moon. His mind featured an irritating fixation on vegetation; he contemplated a dozen species of vegetation, including grass, trees, cacti, and wheat. Still, nothing seemed to make any decent amount of sense.
So he stared at the darkness on the ceiling. The half-moon hovered in the sky, filtering silvery light to those on the surface. The slight illumination reflected off of the pearly white buildings and shone through the windows, casting various shapes in the shadows on the surfaces of his…
He sat up, eyes wide and pulse racing. That's it. That's it! he thought.
Excited, he sprang from his bed, ignoring the soft slippers as he ran out of the room. He made it to the door out of his apartment and began turning the knob before he glanced down and realized he wore nothing but an undershirt and boxers.
Michaels hurriedly threw on whatever clothing he could grab and ran out the door. He wore mismatched brown socks with black shoes, horrible coordination and wrinkled clothes. Normally he'd be appalled if anyone dressed so slovenly, but more important things were on his mind.
Several minutes later, after a brief but intense argument with the security person and a sprint back to his room to get his identification badge, he was admitted by the cheerful guard into the Institute.
A few moments later, he arrived in his office. He sank into the luxurious chair that could have been on fire for all he would have noticed as he impatiently drummed his fingers on the desk while the computer started.
He mistyped his login and password three times before taking a deep breath and inputting them once more, this time carefully enough to avoid any mistakes. As soon as everything was loaded, he pulled up a directory search. In the field signified by the blinking gray bar, he wrote what he sincerely hoped was the answer to the riddle.
Search keyword: shadows
Michaels clapped his hands and gave a cry of triumph as the next entry in the video log came up into 'items found' window of the search engine. It, of course, did not contain the word shadows or anything like it, but he had long since given up on wondering about the eccentricities of Coleman and his programming. It was easier to just play the dead man's game and hope for the best.
The video file was named 'mlc-nanit,' and the creation date was only a couple of weeks prior to his death. He opened it, seeing the frozen, kindly, bearded face of Marcus Coleman wearing a stoic expression. He hit the play button, and the image sprang to life.
"Lange has personally expressed irritation at my absences at meetings and, as he put it, 'dereliction of responsibility.' Ancient fool. Everyone knows the 'youthful' hologram is just a pitiful ploy; how can he not realize it?" Coleman sighed. "Of course, that kind of talk, even from a well-established individual like myself, could get me into serious trouble." He forced a large, hollow smile, and said with obvious sarcasm, "Citizen One knows best. Anyway, none of my 'duties' are nearly as important or fascinating as the recent discoveries. Although there is no way of knowing its precise origins, I know now that the tissue sample must have come from some very highly advanced and enlightened race."
All irritation with Lange was forgotten as Coleman spoke with building excitement. "The tissue sample is still alive. At first, it completely blew me away. It seemed so inconceivable. However, the specimen, in spite of being naught more than a scrap of skin and having traveled through the vacuum of space for God only knows how long, still features functioning cells. But that's not even the best part," he took another deep breath, and Michaels leaned forward, his face inches from the screen in anticipation, waiting for Coleman to continue. The pause dragged on.
It took Michaels several moments to realize that the recording had stopped. He sat blinking at the glowing screen. In a storm of curses and shouting, he slammed the lid of the terminal down. "What's the best part you incompetent fool?" he yelled. "Tell me now and spare me your eccentricities!"
His voice echoed in the otherwise silent room as he slumped back, fuming. His hands gripped the chair arms in frustration as he hissed breath through his clenched teeth. After a time, his body calmed and rage subsided. As he sat, thoughts of the clearly justified brutality to the bastard filled his head, and the exhaustion seeped back into his body. I wish he were alive again so I could kill him again myself… he thought.