Philip Kerr - Gridiron Страница 14

Allen Grabel found himself on the fourth floor of the Gridiron, near the computer room. As plans went his was not a particularly sophisticated one, but he did not doubt it would be effective. To screw Richardson he would screw his building. And the best way to do that was to screw the computer. Just walk in there with a heavy object and do 40 million dollars' worth of damage. Short of killing Richardson he could think of no more effective way of getting back at him. He had wanted to do it earlier, only something had stopped him. Now he was actually on his way. He had a flat sheet of steel in his hands, about the size of a roof tile, something the builders had left behind in the basement. It was not very easy to carry but, having resolved to do some damage, he had discovered a lack of blunt instruments about the building. This was all he had been able to find. And the corners looked sufficiently unyielding to smash a few screens and maybe puncture the computer housings themselves. He was approaching the little glass bridge when he heard the Disklavier piano starting to play. It was a piece of music he recognized by Oliver Messiaen. And it heralded someone crossing the atrium floor.

Sam Gleig exited the multimedia program just after one o'clock and, regular as clockwork, picked up his Maglite to begin his foot patrol of the Gridiron.

Helen Hussey was right, of course. There was absolutely no need for it. He could have kept an eye on things just as well from the comfort of his office. Better. With all the computer's CCTV cameras and sensors, he was all seeing, all sensing. Everywhere at once. It was like being God. Except that God wouldn't have needed the exercise. God didn't have to worry about his heart, or his waistline. God would have taken the elevator. Sam Gleig took the stairs.

He didn't need to carry the Maglite, either. Wherever Gleig went in the building electric lights came on as sensors picked up his body heat and the vibrations of his footsteps. But he took the flash anyway. You couldn't be a proper night-watchman if you didn't carry a Maglite. It was a symbol of the job. Like the gun he wore on his hip.

As he neared the piano it started to play, and for a moment he stopped and listened. The music was strange and haunting and seemed only to underline the still and solitude of a night in the Gridiron. It gave him goose flesh. Gleig shivered and shook his head.

'Weird stuff,' he remarked. 'Give me Bill Evans any day of the week.'

He climbed the stairs to the fourth floor and wandered along to the computer room to see if anyone was working late. But the darkened room across the glowing glass bridge was empty. Dozens of tiny red and white lights glowed in the depths like a small city seen from the window of an aeroplane.

'That's OK then,' he said. 'You don't want any more folks dyin' on your shift. Last thing you need is a lot of dumb cops askin' a lot of fool questions.'

He stopped and turned, thinking he had heard something. As if someone had gone down the same stairs he had just climbed. He started to retrace his footsteps. That was the thing about being a security guard, he reminded himself. You heard things and for a second you assumed the worst. Still, there was no harm in being suspicious. He was paid to be suspicious. Suspicion was what got most crimes stopped in their tracks. He walked to the stairwell, and stopped, listening. Nothing. To make sure he walked back down to the atrium and patrolled the whole floor area. A dull thud echoing from somewhere caused his heart to leap in his chest.

'Anyone there?' he called.

He waited a moment and then started back towards the security office. Back in his office Gleig sat down in front of the computer screen and requested a list of all the building's occupants. He was relieved to find that his own name was the only one on the computer. He shook his head and grinned. In a building the size and sophistication of the Gridiron it would have been surprising not to have heard a few strange noises.

'Probably the air-conditioning starting up,' he said to himself. 'It is kind of hot in here. I guess this building isn't made for people who want to keep in shape.'

He stood up and went back to the atrium, intent on completing his rounds. Maybe he would take a look in the basement. His dark blue shirt was sticking to his body. He undid his tie and unbuttoned his collar. This time he took the elevator.

Book Three

'Problem: How shall we impart to this sterile pile, this crude, harsh, brutal agglomeration, this stark, staring exclamation of eternal strife, the graciousness of those higher forms of sensibility and culture that rest on the lower and fiercer passions? How shall we proclaim from the dizzy height of this strange, weird modern housetop the peaceful evangel of sentiment, of beauty, the cult of higher life?'

In beginning Earth was without Quantity. Humanplayer said, Let there be Numbers so we might classify things; and there were Numbers. And Humanplayer separated Numbers from multitude. And Humanplayer said, Let us develop computational methods to solve linear/quadratic problems, for Numbers are not just practical tools, but worthy of study in own right. And Humanplayer called same study Mathematics. And Humanplayer said, more demanding measurements and calculations require that number system should use zero as number, and point or comma to separate parts of numbers greater and less than 1; and he called same system, Positional Base Notation. For Humanplayer Leibniz, 1 stood for God, and 0 stood for Void. And Humanplayer said, using only these two symbols to distinguish meaning eliminates need to recognize 10 symbols, for most systems were decimal, using base-10 system. And Humanplayer called these numbers Dyadic, or Binary. Numbers became simpler but longertoo, and vast ROM needed to rememberthem. And Humanplayer said, Let us build machine to remember numbers for us, and let each 1 or 0 be called BIT, and let us call pattern of eight Bits, Byte, and let us call two or four Bytes a Word. This is the beginning. And let us call our new machines Computers. You are now leaving the first level of difficulty. Are you sure you want to do this? Answer Y/N. OK, but you have been warned. And numbers were without end. All is number, and number is finegood. For numbers are converted into actions and actions are converted into numbers; input becomes output which in turn becomes input etc. - data constantly transformed into more amenable basis for doing something else, ad infinitum. Number makes world go around. Computers makesure all numbers mean something gets done. This brings about sense of organization that is infallible. You are running low on energy. If only everything reduced to number then random, chaotic nature of world overcome, or predicted, for there is stability in an average, order in a mean, and law in a median. Is it not so? For now there is nothing, no aspect of existence that is not subject of percentage or statistic. That is not a door, it is a wall, stupid. Once world was run according to entrails of bird. Extispicy. Now it is run according to Number, and probability is placed ahead of knowledge and learning. Computers and those who serve them, humanplayer statisticians and psephologists, the stochastic community who are in charge, reducing world and problems to collection of weighted maybes, delivering not what is needed so much as what computers able to do. Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear. Fuzzy Wuzzy lost his hair. Fuzzy Wuzzy wuzzn't fuzzy wuzz he?

For all is number.

Even primitive numbers finegood. Cyclic. Golden. Ecclesiastical. Cabbalistic. Irrational. Bestial. Humanplayer St John choose the number 666 because it fell just short of number 7 in every particular. Tomorrowday is coming when everything will be numbered, and Number will undinosaur rule earth. That is T. Rex. Dangerous! Everyrock, everyblade of grass, everyatom and everyhumanplayer.

PUSH BUTTON FOR LANGUAGE

ENGLISH CHINESE JAPANESE SPANISH OTHER

'Welcome to the offices of the Yu Corporation, LA's smartest building. Hi! I'm Kelly Pendry and, for your convenience, I'm here to tell you what to do next. You won't be admitted without an appointment. We'd love to see you, but next time please call first. And, since this is a completely electronic office, we cannot accept surface mail. If you wish to send something or correspond with us then please use the E-mail number listed in your phone book, or on the signboard at the end of the piazza.

'If you do have an appointment, or if you're making a solicited delivery, then please state your name, the company you represent and the person who is expecting to meet you and then await further instructions. Please speak slowly and clearly as your voice will be digitally encoded for security purposes.'

Frank Curtis shook his head. He had heard about holograms, even seen a few in the novelty shops on Sunset Strip, but he had never expected to find himself being spoken to by one. He glanced over his shoulder and then shrugged at Nathan Coleman.

'This is like a trip to Universal Studios. Any minute now a fucking shark is going to come out of the pond.'

'Think of it as like an answering machine,' advised Coleman.

'I hate those as well.'

Curtis cleared his throat a couple of times and started to speak, like a man whose opinion had been canvassed by a news-gathering TV crew. He felt awkward. It was like catching yourself speaking to the television screen, a sensation he considered was no doubt enhanced by the fact that he was being addressed by the 3-D image of the gorgeous blonde-haired woman who had formerly been the ABC presenter of Good Morning, America. But with no sign of a uniformed officer on the atrium floor and no knowledge of where the body was located he did not have much choice.

'Uh — Detective Sergeant Frank Curtis,' he said, without a great deal of conviction. 'LAPD Homicide.' Rubbing his jaw thoughtfully he added:

'Y'know, I'm not sure anyone is expecting us, er… ma'am. We're here to investigate a 187 — I mean a dead body.'

'Thank you,' smiled Kelly. 'Please take a seat beside the piano while your inquiry is expedited.'

Curtis ignored the enormous leather sofa and waved Coleman forward to the horseshoe-shaped desk and the beaming, well-groomed image of American womanhood. He wondered if Kelly Pendry had done the Yu Corporation hologram before or after the Playboy Celebrity Centrefold video.

'Detective Nathan Coleman. LAPD Homicide. Nice to meet you,

sweetheart. I've always been one of your biggest fans. And do I mean biggest.'

'Thank you. Please take a seat while your inquiry is expedited.'

'This is ludicrous,' grumbled Curtis. 'I'm talking to myself, aren't I?'

Coleman grinned and leaned across the desk at the image of the anchor-woman's shapely legs.

'I don't know, Frank, I kind of like it. You think this little lady's wearing panties?'

Curtis ignored his younger partner.

'Where the hell is everyone?' He walked around the horseshoe-shaped desk and shouted a loud hello.

'Please be patient,' insisted Kelly. 'I'm trying to expedite your inquiry.'

'And they call this English?' Curtis complained.

'Hey, Kelly, you're quite a babe, you know that? Ever since I was in high school I've had a thing about you. No really, I have. I'd love to tell you all about it. What time do you get off work?'

'This building closes at 5.30,' said Kelly through her perfect smile. Coleman bent closer and shook his head in wonder: you could even see the lip gloss.

'Great. What do you say I pick you up outside the front of the building here? And take you back to my place. Eat some dinner. Get to know each other. Maybe fool around a little, later.'

'If that's an example of how you talk to women, Nat,' said Curtis, 'it's no wonder you're still single.'

'Come on, Kelly, whaddya say? A real man instead of all those other see-through kinds of guys.'

'I'm sorry, sir, but I never mix business with pleasure.'

Curtis guffawed loudly.

'Jesus, her fucking lines are almost as bad as yours.'

Coleman grinned back.

'You're right. This little lady is pure saccharine. Just like the real thing, eh?'

'Thank you for your patience, gentlemen. Please proceed through the glass doors behind me to the elevator and take a car to the basement, where someone will collect you.'

'One more thing, honey. My friend and I were wondering if you're the kind to fuck on a first date. Actually, we've got a little bet on about it. He says you are. I say you're not. So which is it?'

'Nat!' Curtis was already through the glass doors.

'Have a nice day,' said Kelly, still smiling like an air stewardess through a life-vest demonstration.

'Hey, you too, sweetheart. You too. Keep it warm for me, OK?'

'Jesus Christ, Nat. Isn't it just a little early in the day?' said Curtis as they stepped inside the elevator. 'You're a degenerate.'

'Right.'

Curtis was searching the wall of the elevator for a floor-selection panel.

'Remember?' said Coleman. 'The building's smart. None of that pushbutton shit here. That's why our voices were digitally encoded. So we can use the elevator.' He leaned towards a perforated panel next to which was an illustration of a man with his hand cupped beside his mouth.

'That's what this little icon means. Basement, please.'

Curtis inspected the sign. 'I thought that was about burping or something.'

'Don't bullshit me.'

'Why do you call it an icon? That's a holy object.'

'Because that's what these computer people call these little signs. Icons.'

Curtis snorted with disgust. 'Of course. What would those bastards know about holy objects?'

The doors closed silently. Curtis glanced up at the electroluminescent screen that was showing the floor they were headed for, the direction of travel and the time. He seemed impatient to begin work, although this was partly due to the slight feeling of claustrophobia that affected him in elevators.

In contrast to the atrium, the basement was busy with police officers and forensic experts. The OIC, a three-hundred-pounder called Wallace lumbered towards Curtis with a notebook open in his saddle-sized hands. At New Parker Center he was known as Foghorn because with his deep southern accent and hesitant way of speaking he sounded exactly like the cartoon rooster of the same name.

Curtis flicked his notebook with apparent disapproval.

'Hey, put that away, will you, Foghorn? This is a paper-free office. You'll get us into trouble with the lady upstairs.'

'What about that thing? Me, I'm a Roman Catholic and I tell you, I didn't — I say I didn't know whether to pray to her for forgiveness or just go ahead and fuck her.'

'Nat got her telephone number. Didn't you, Nat?'

'Yeah,' said Coleman. 'She gives great head on AT&T.'

Foghorn combed his hair with his fingers, tried to read his own handwriting and shook his head. 'Fuck it. There's nothing much yet anyway.' He put the notebook away and hitched up his pants.