Stephen Dedman - Schrodinger's Catalyst.pdf - Stephen Dedman - widez2

STEPHEN DEDMAN

SCHRODINGER'S CATALYST

Stephen Dedman's first novel, The Art of Arrow Cutting, has just been published

to good reviews. That novel blends fantasy and thriller genres, but in the

following story Mr. Dedman gives us straightforward SF. "I wanted to write about

sane scientists," he writes us from his native Australia. "I've only ever met

one mad scientist--an entomologist with an enthusiasm for Madagascar

cockroaches-and even he may have been merely eccentric."

Mad? Sane? Who can say what's in the box?

CAT, n. [(C)lear-(A)ir (T)urbulence.] Avi. The turbulence encountered in

cloudless air as differentiated from storm turbulence...

catabasis, n. pl catabases. A going down or back...

catamnensis, n. pl catamneses. Med. A patient's medical history taken during, or

after recovery from, an illness.

I glanced out the window while I waited for the elevator. It must have been at

least ninety outside already, and even the insects looked exhausted, but the

clouds were there, as always; big, fat, lumpy cumuli, randomly scattered through

the bone-dry air. We'd spent much of the night before watching the lightning,

betting on how it would fork and expecting it to rain. It hadn't. Chalk up

another victory for Chaos Theory.

I passed up the hotel breakfast in favor of coffee in the Green Room. DefDep was

picking up my tab, but good, freshly brewed coffee always tastes vaguely wrong

to me. Szymczyk, Schwartz, and Fukushima were still sitting around the table in

the comer, arguing about turbulence and weather control and butterfly effects,

as they had been at the last two conferences, Fuku paused long enough to grant a

greeting. The coffee was bitter and corrosive and exactly what I needed. I

poured a little cream into it, watching it swirl and break up into fractal

patterns. When I looked up, Cassidy was sitting at the table nearby, wearing a

garish NASA T-shirt. With her dress sense and those breasts, it's no wonder she

can't get tenure.

"Isn't it a little early for you?" I murmured, politely.

"I'm looking forward to your paper," she replied, opening a can of something

that looked horribly healthy. I shrugged. I wasn't due to deliver my paper until

tomorrow, but it may have been a non sequitur. I finished my coffee, glanced at

my watch -- 9:37 -- and reached into my briefcase for my copy of the program. It

wasn't there. I yawned, and walked over to the conference center. The traffic

was heavier than I'd expected, this late on a Friday, even for a town where the

malls don't open until ten.

I wandered around the halls, reading the program outside each room. It was all

obvious stuff, and most of the names were unfamiliar. All of the really good

work being done in the field is still classified. I stepped back and leaned

against a pillar, reaching into my jacket pocket for my notebook and the list of

possibles. I was still fumbling with the index (computers are for kids and

passwords doubly so) when a fortyish woman in a maroon uniform passed in front

of me, removing the program cards and replacing them with new ones. Curious, I

wandered back and looked again. Fool woman had put Saturday's program up a day

early. I caught up with her, and told her so, and she glanced at me, early

morning irritation on her broad brown face. "This is Saturday..." she said,

patiently, as though talking to a child, and then added, "Doctor."

I stood there, refusing to believe I could have misplaced a day. Physicists have

a reputation for absent-mindedness and eccentricity, true; Feigenbaum spent a

long time experimenting with twenty-six hour days, and Einstein often forgot his

own address, but I can't claim the excuse of genius; I'm a lecturer and

administrator, I have classes and meetings and deadlines every other day.

I glanced at the notebook again, and punched up the chronograph function, a

little hesitantly. Saturday, August 5th. My watch confirmed it. I sagged against

the pillar, and tried to think.

"Morning, Peter," came an annoyingly cheerful voice from a few feet away.

"Head-hunting again?"

I looked up. My confusion must have shown on my face, and stimulated Cortese's

minuscule compassion circuit. "Something wrong?" he asked, softly.

I straightened my shoulders as best I could. How much could be wrong, after all?

I hadn't had any commitments on Friday -- a few papers I would have liked to

have heard, but I had the abstracts. I could remember Thursday pretty well, and

I'd known it was Thursday. I'd attended the opening address, all the telltales

of Thursdayness had been apparent. okay," I replied. "A little jet-lag, maybe. I

should be used to it, by now."

The Jesuit bastard snorted. "Not a hangover?"

"Did I get drunk last night?" I asked, before I could stop myself. Cortese

shrugged.

"How would I know? The Bomb and Novelty Shop doesn't try to ply me with flaming

Lamborghinis, or B-52s, or Wargasms, or whatever they call 'em. You sure you're

okay?"

I nodded, and stood. I was shaky, sure, but my mouth is usually the first to

tell me when I've downed too many cocktails, and it said I hadn't. "I'm fine," I

said, almost believing it.

The maid had tidied my room by the time I returned. My program book was sitting

on the bed, and I grabbed it on my way to the bathroom, and sat on the bidet by

mistake. I wasn't accustomed to this sort of opulence; there was even a small TV

monitor on the marble bench near the handbasin. It was a far cry from the

bathroom at my parents' home, or the even worse one at the rooming house I'd

stayed in as an undergraduate, or the graffiti-splattered ablutions block at the

summer camp where I'd worked as a counselor....I looked at myself in the mirror,

cautiously. I've never been good looking, but I knew how to wear a suit and knot

a necktie better than ninety percent of physicists.

I hated these conferences, hated leaving my familiar labs and lecture theaters

and offices, even if there was a TV in the bathroom and someone to make my bed

for me. I looked at Friday's abstracts. I hadn't made any notes, nothing that

would remind me of where I'd been. I swore, stood, flushed the toilet, and

zipped my trousers up. I opened a drawer to find a new tie, and saw the gun. For

a moment, I thought -- hoped -- that I'd walked into the wrong room, but that

was so improbable that I rejected it immediately.

I stared at the gun-- a smallish revolver with a short barrel and rubber grip.

It didn't look familiar; my father had owned a shotgun, and taught me to use it,

I'm not a pacifist like Cortese or Cassidy, but I'd never handled a pistol

before. Never felt the need. I broke it, and emptied the cylinder into my palm.

Four bullets, and one spent cartridge.

Why the hell would I have bought a pistol? Pistols are only good for killing

people, and I couldn't think of anybody I wanted to kill...well, nobody in

Florida, anyway.

I sniffed the muzzle. It smelt clean, well-kept, and it hadn't been used in the

past few hours. I sat there for a moment, wondering what the hell to do next,

and then I dropped the offending item on the bed and collected a paper bag from

the bathroom, a handkerchief from the drawer, and the stapler from my briefcase.

I wiped gun and bullets clean of fingerprints, and then dumped them into the

bag, which I stapled shut. The bag went into my suitcase, and I made a mental

note to throw the whole mess into a lake before I had to fly out.

I delivered my paper with as much enthusiasm as I could muster, hoping that

nobody would ask any questions I couldn't field. Nobody did; maybe nobody was

sufficiently interested. I caught up with Cassidy in the corridor outside.

"Lunch?" I panted.

She looked startled.

"Are you free for lunch?" I repeated. "On me?"

The startled look faded into mild suspicion. Finally, she nodded.

"There's a sushi bar up International Drive. You have a car?"

"Yes -- over at the Peabody."

"Okay."

There was still some uncertainty there. "Did you have other plans?"

"No, I'm just -- a little taken aback. Are you okay?"

I shrugged. "A little stressed, I guess. That, and jet lag. Nothing serious."

"When was the last time you had a vacation?"

"I hate vacations," I replied, automatically. Actually, that was true. Half of

my colleagues had taken at least one day off to visit Disney World or one of the

other playgrounds; I hadn't even found the way to the hotel swimming pool.

Cassidy shook her head, tut-tutting like my Jewish grandmother. "When did you

come to that conclusion? What do you do in the summer?"

"Work." I tried to keep it light. "DepDef doesn't believe in holidays. Eternal

vigilance is the price we, etc., etc."

"Christmas?"

I grimaced. "I go and see my family. Sometimes."

"When you can't avoid it?" she asked, gently.

"We don't get on that well," I explained. "They're still living in the town

where I grew up, and I hate the place." I blinked. I couldn't remember ever

telling anybody that before, and I felt as though I'd given away classified

information.

"Any hobbies ?"

"Uh...I like flying, especially gliders, but I haven't done that in --"I had to

think about it, "two years. Maybe three."

"What did you enjoy as a kid?"

I shrugged. "Nothing. I hated it; couldn't wait to grow up."

"I suppose you hate sushi, too?"

"I've never tried it," I admitted.

She smiled. "Let's go."

I switched the radio on as soon as we were in the car, to try to postpone any

further conversation, and caught the local news headlines, and that's how I

heard about the murder.

"Friend of yours?" Cassidy asked, softly.

"What ?" I jumped, and nearly steered the TransAm into the side of an old

Lumina. The driver flipped me the finger; her red nails were over an inch long,

and viciously curved.

"The Father...the victim. Did you know him?"

It was only a few blocks to the restaurant; if it weren't for the heat, we'd

have been better off walking. "I don't know. The name rings a bell, vaguely..."

Cassidy laughed, and tried -- unsuccessfully -- to disguise it as a cough.

"What's funny?"

"Sorry. 'Rings a bell,' and him being a priest...I shouldn't have laughed."

The restaurant was visible now. "I knew a Father York, yes," I said, as I parked

the car. "He was our parish priest, when I was a boy. I never knew his first

name. I suppose it could be the same man..." I let go the wheel, trying not to

let my hands shake. I told myself not to jump to conclusions, that I didn't have

enough data, that there was such a thing as coincidence, that a hunch or a

feeling wasn't proof...it didn't work very well.

"Who'd want to murder a priest?" Cassidy asked, innocently.

Instead of answering, I opened the door and stepped out into the Florida

sunlight. I ducked around the car to open Cassidy's door for her, but she was

quicker. "Something is wrong, isn't it?"

"No, of course not."

She slammed the door and swore at me. "Peter, if you think I'm going to sit

opposite you for an hour and try to guess what is going on inside you like you

were some sort of Schrodinger's bloody cat, and waste a perfectly good sashimi

platter into the bargain --" She ran out of breath before she ran out of fury,

and spluttered at me for a few seconds before remembering to inhale. "I gave you

the benefit of the doubt; you've never tried to recruit me before, so I assumed

it wasn't that, and I didn't think you'd waste your time trying to seduce me;

you could do a lot better. Okay. You want to talk? Then

I had to laugh. Cassidy is barely five feet tall, and very stocky, with short

curly hair; she looked for all the world like Samwise the hobbit (Jesus, how

long was it since I read that book? Thirty years?). A second later, she joined

in the laughter. When we'd finished, she leaned back against the TransAm and

snapped, "Well?"

"Do you remember seeing me yesterday?"

She stared at me. "What?"

Stephen Dedman - Schrodinger's Catalyst.pdf

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