David's Sling (4 page)

May 26

In the Information Age, the first step to sanity is FILTERING. Filter the information; extract the knowledge.

—Zetetic Commentaries, Kira Evans

They held an early ceremony—early enough to discourage people from coming, early enough to complete quickly, early enough to catch the morning dew before it evaporated. Dampness still shimmered on the rocks and markers that dotted the cemetery.

"I am the resurrection and the life, saieth the Lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live . . ."the minister's voice droned on.

Leslie felt disconnected from the service, as though watching through a telescope the odd behavior of an alien culture. It left him calm—perhaps too calm. He had lost too many people to be overwhelmed by the loss of one more. He would not be overwhelmed this time, though this time he had lost the most wonderful woman he had ever known: his wife, Jan Evans.

His mind skipped briefly across the toll death had taken around him during the years. Leslie Evans had flown as an Air Force fighter pilot. Even in peacetime, one fourth of all fighter pilots never reached retirement age. How odd for him to be attending Jan's funeral, rather than the other way around. There had certainly been moments during the last agonizing days of her life that he wished he could have reversed their positions, if only to give her a few hours without pain.

Perhaps the crowning irony was that her impending death had caused her to save his life. He too had been a cigarette smoker, until Jan contracted lung cancer. Jan had used him as her first guinea pig in her efforts to develop better cures for smoking. His fingers twitched at the thought of the cigarettes he had not touched for two years.

". . . and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die . . ."

He could not have thanked her or loved her enough, had she lived a thousand years.

He heard a sniffle to his right. From the corner of his eye he watched his daughter, Kira, as she stared off to the horizon. Despite her sniffle, she seemed more angry than sad. Leslie knew the focus of her anger. He had watched her carefully during these last few days. Her attitudes reminded him of Jan in her youth. Kira had graduated from Virginia Tech just in time to witness the last throes of Jan's battle; now her graduation ceremony would seem stale and pointless. Leslie reached out and took her hand in his. She did not look at him, but her grip held surprising strength. Her nails dug into his hand. The pain seemed more real, more in tune with the grief battering his mind, than the words of the minister.

". . . Death will be swallowed up in victory . . ."

He saw Kira's face tighten with renewed anger. She was not a person to sit on her emotions without acting; Leslie worried about what she might do. She had engaged in long sessions with the Zetetic computers since coming home, searching for something. She had not tried to alter any of the data bases, but two days ago, she had mentioned that she had accepted a job with a small advertising firm. When Leslie did his own data base search, he found that this particular firm had just won a big contract with the largest tobacco company in the country. Leslie felt tired every time he thought about what that might mean. And of course, it wouldn't do him any good to confront her about it.

". . . When I consider thy Heaven, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained . . ."

Nathan might be able to talk to her about it. Kira and her uncle had always had a special understanding. Leslie shifted his head to look at Nathan Pilstrom.

Nathan gazed at the preacher with calm, clear eyes. Nathan had not seen so many deaths as Leslie; he did not share Leslie's numbness to human mortality. But Nathan had his own sort of protection, a way of accepting the immediate reality as the starting point for his thoughts. He never dwelled on might-have-beens.

Nathan himself seemed surprised at times by his own stolid acceptance of events gone by. Even more surprising, his acceptance did not dull his enthusiasm for changing things as they might be tomorrow—things over which he could still exercise control. He had a pragmatic, Zetetic way of thinking. Nathan himself attributed his perspective to Jan's influence, but Leslie knew that the seeds had always been there. It seemed natural for Nathan to devise new ways of viewing the world.

But it didn't seem quite as natural for him to run a world-famous Institute. Jan had thrust him into that position, her last and greatest effort. Leslie wondered if Nathan might not harbor a mild irritation with Jan for sticking him with that responsibility. Because of Jan, he now had to deal with politics, and with politicians.

". . . Almighty God, our Heavenly Father, in whose hands are the living and the dead: we give these thanks for all Thy servants who have laid down their lives in the service of our country . . ."

Leslie looked far to his right to see Senator Hilan Forstil. Forstil was the only politician he had met whom he hadn't disliked on sight. He didn't understand his own lack of hostility; Forstil seemed as phony as any of them. Jan had assured him that Forstil was a straight shooter. Leslie took her word for it as long as he didn't have to bet money.

In this moment, however, Leslie thought he saw what Jan had meant. Of all the people at this funeral, Forstil seemed most grief-stricken. He stood apart from the others, speaking to no one, grappling with some deep personal loss.

And another person he didn't know—a young, serious, dean-shaven man—also stood separate from the others. Leslie was pretty sure he was Kurt McKenna, a kid just out of Special Forces, recruited for the Institute by Jan. He wondered how the gung-ho attitude of a ranger would mesh with Zetetic philosophy; the Institute fought fanaticism with a zeal that itself bordered on the fanatical. Kurt would no doubt set off new kinds of fireworks within the ZI realm; Leslie hoped they would be healthy.

". . . grant to them Thy mercy, and the light of Thy presence; and give us such a lively sense of Thy righteous will, that the work which Thou hast begun in them may be perfected . . ."

The ceremony ended. Leslie hugged his daughter tightly. Nathan came up beside them, and Leslie and Kira opened their arms to him as well. For a while the three of them stood huddled by the grave. After an immeasurable time they separated, reluctantly, like the fibers of a rope being parted.

Until now, Leslie had kept his thoughts away from Jan with scrupulous success. But images of her, accumulated for almost twenty-five years, welled up in his mind. Amd despite all the funerals of friends and pilots he had attended, despite the calloused surface of his mind that should have been inured to the tragic losses, he turned away from everyone and slipped into the cemetery's groves to walk alone with his grief.

ROLL. He dashes past the Institute with a flurry of pleasure, confident in his strength. Bill is a runner, a marathoner. He understands the pain that accompanies an effort too great—a pain almost as great as the pleasure of making that effort. For now, there is only pleasure.

The air melts as he passes, carrying away his perspiration. A wind gusts against him, full in the face, twisting through the curls of his hair. He presses against it, exultant with the knowledge that the gust cannot obstruct his passage. He continues, several laps across the entrance to the Institute.

Thirty-five minutes. Five miles. A year before, he had made similar runs in 32 minutes. A year before that, he had made them in 30 minutes. The difference, he concludes, is statistically insignificant. He feels as strong as he has ever been. That is the truth, not to be confused with the fact.

Bill showers and dresses. Invigorated, he returns to the Institute.

The Institute building shares no architectural theme with the other structures in this industrial park. In the late morning light the building glows a soft salmon color, its gentle contours reaching out warmly to those who pass by. The soft-gray windows contrast with the glaring mirrored portals of other nearby buildings, suggesting that quality can nonetheless be quiet. This building seems somehow friendlier than the others. Bill shakes his head and remembers that this building houses his target.

To the left of the driveway stands a small bronze sign with a curious emblem. An arrow points up at a 45 degree angle, soaring over a pair of embellished steps. After a moment of squinting in the brightness, Bill realizes the two steps form the letters "ZI" in a script almost completely lost in the design.

A shadow falls across him. He is not yet psyched up for confrontation; he steps to the side and looks at the man who stopped next to him.

The man smiles and points at the sign. "The Zetetic Institute invites you to take the next step."

Bill stares, his mouth suddenly dry. The man seems familiar. He is tall, though not so tall as Bill. A relaxed alertness sets the lines of his body, similar to the lines of the building itself. The man's smile is sincere; his gray eyes probe the wide-eyed awareness in Bill's own eyes. The honesty in those eyes strikes a chord of guilt in Bill's mind.

The man raises an eyebrow. "Sorry if I surprised you. It's just that you looked so unhappy, staring at our sign."

Bill frowns.

The man puts out his hand. "I'm Nathan Pilstrom,"

Nathan Pilstrom—Bill knows the name. He knows he will remember why in a moment. Nathan Pilstrom grips his hand firmly. The man seems disgustingly
natural
, the caricature that gives the term
nice
a bad reputation. Bill has never encountered a better facade.

Nathan leads him down through the courtyard, where a pair of earth-colored toy robots hum to and fro. They seem silly, hovering among the well-trimmed trees and shrubs. Then he realizes that the robots are doing the trimming.

"So what's your interest in the Institute?"

Bill snaps back to awareness of the man beside him. His throat still feels parched. His cover story resembles his news stories: at its heart lies a vague form of the facts, richly articulated, with statements that are not false. "I saw one of your Zetetic engineers at a meeting near Hanford recently. He really carved the audience to shreds, and so I figured I should come and see if I can learn how he did it."

Nathan stops; Bill turns to him. Nathan speaks with distress, "You say he carved up the audience? Who was it—do you remember?"

Bill stares, then shakes his head. A gust of wind.sweeps the street, throwing grit in Bill's eyes. He squints. "No, I don't remember his name. But he sure won the argument."

"I'll have to find out who it was," Nathan mutters. "Believe me, carving people up and winning arguments is not what Zeteticism is all about. Zeteticism has more in common with the martial arts—the true master avoids confrontation; he does not seek it out."

Bill shrugs. "Well, the ZI guy seemed like a winner, anyway." He grins, adding, "And the way your cult is growing, I figure I'm better off on the inside than on the outside."

"Our cult, hm? You've gotten too much of your information from the television news people."

Bill's breathing halts—the bastard dares to defame Bill's own profession! It takes a moment to find words that are polite. He shakes his head. "Well, 'cult' might be the wrong term. But you
are
the people who run the no-smoking courses, right? And you're the ones who talk about how the cosmetic industry makes people think they need more specialized products just so they can sell more junk. Right?

Nathan winces. "The press has a breathtaking capacity for oversimplifying. You know that, right? Everyone knows that. Then why does everyone forget it every time the press says something?" Nathan's voice suggests frustration. Yet his tone remains lighthearted. He accepts this oddity of human behavior without cynicism or anger. "In answer, we
do
run clinics on advertising and media manipulation, and we
do
discuss the cosmetics industry. As for the question of human wants and desires, we might ask a question like this: Do people want more cosmetics, which persuades the companies to invent more of them? Or do the companies invent more of them, and persuade the people they want more? Anyone who thinks the persuasions flow strictly one way or the other is not fully connected to reality. There's a feedback loop here, almost as delicately balanced as a regional ecology." His arms sweep as he declares, "We teach people to deal with the best approximations of reality they can construct—and reality is always far more complicated than the press coverage suggests."

Watching that theatrical sweep of the arms, Bill remembers why he knows the name Nathan Pilstrom. He stares for a moment at the man smiling at him: Nathan Pilstrom is the founder of the Zetetic Institute. Bill almost stumbles as they step across the threshold into the Institute.

Meeting the founder so unexpectedly leaves him surprised, yet the surprise drowns in the shock of his view in this entranceway. His thoughts of Nathan swirl away, swept aside as the walls now surrounding him imprint themselves upon him. Bill gasps.

He has seen pictures of the Jewel Hall, but no picture can capture it. Clusters of the world's finest gems blaze across the walls, forming starry galaxies beyond price. Bill's mouth hangs wide as he traces a series of emerald droplets across the arching ceiling.

Nathan leads him to a central section of the wall. "Take one," he offers.

"What?!"

Nathan rubs his hand across the wall. "Take one."

Bill reaches for a black opal: could it be the Flame Queen? His fingers close around it. He clutches it tight—and his fingers close
through
the lustrous stone until they touch. A feint sensation of electricity tingles through his hand.

Nathan chuckles. "As you apparently know, the Zetetic Institute gives seminars and training on a wide variety of topics. What you haven't seen yet is the connecting theme behind all those topics." Nathan leads him forward again, toward a far door. "The Zetetic theme is that in the Information Age, correct information is the key resource. Men must act in harmony with the best information they have. We strive to develop ever better methods for coping with the vast quantities of information that inundate us every day." He spreads his arms to encompass the room. "The Jewel Hall is encrusted not with jewels, but with holograms. The holograms embody all the visual information, all the beauty, of the jewels they pretend to be. " He laughed the deep, pleasant laugh of a grandfather who has just passed a secret down two generations. "And the information that describes those jewels is all that's really important about them, isn't it? Would this display be any more spectacular if the jewels contained minerals as well as information?''