The Investigation (22 page)

“I’ll invite him now,” Gregory decided.

“No, I don’t,” he said. “Poverty is a virtue, so we make a point of being diligent about it in the police department. Look, this was all my fault. Maybe it’s in the stars for us to spend the evening with each other since we started it by having dinner together. It’s supper time, why don’t we have something to eat?”

“Maybe in a cafeteria, considering the poverty,” Sciss mumbled. He looked up and down the street as if searching for someone.

“I’m not that poor. How about a moonlight drive to the Savoy? What do you say? They have a few quiet tables up on the balcony, and the wine there is very good.”

“No, thank you. I don’t drink. I can’t. I don’t know.” Sciss got back in the Chrysler and said quite calmly, “It’s all the same to me.”

“So you’ll come. Wonderful. You go first, I’ll follow, all right?” Gregory spoke quickly, pretending to think the scientist had accepted his invitation. Sciss scrutinized him carefully, leaned out of the car as if to get a better look at his face, then slammed the door without warning and pushed the starter. Sitting behind the wheel of his own car, Gregory had no idea whether Sciss was going to head for the Savoy and, pulling out after the Chrysler, he began to hope that he wouldn’t. But at the first intersection he realized that Sciss was indeed going to have supper with him.

The drive to the Savoy took less than ten minutes. They left both cars in the parking lot and went inside; it was about nine-thirty. An orchestra was playing on the mezzanine; the dance floor, on a rotating platform in the center of the room, was illuminated from underneath by colored lights. Passing through a row of columns, the two men made their way upstairs. The balcony afforded an excellent view of the whole nightclub, except where the line of sight was impeded by chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Gregory ignored the waiter, who was trying to lead them to a back table already occupied by a group of noisy people, and, with Sciss behind him, headed for the far end of the balcony, where he found a small table standing by itself between two columns. Two waiters in full dress immediately stepped over to them, one holding the menu, the other the wine list; the list was very thick.

“Do you know wines?” Sciss asked, closing the leather-bound menu. Gregory smiled.

“A little. How about some Vermouth for a start? Do you take it with lemon?”

“Vermouth? Vermouth is too bitter. Oh, never mind. I’ll try the lemon.”

Gregory nodded to the waiter—it wasn’t necessary to say a word. The second waiter stood patiently a short distance away. Gregory deliberated carefully before ordering, making sure to ask Sciss if he liked salads and if fried foods agreed with him.

Leaning toward the railing, Sciss stared without much interest at the whirling heads below. The orchestra was playing a slow fox-trot.

Gregory watched the dancing for a while, then held his glass of Vermouth up to the light.

“There’s something I have to tell you,” he said, speaking with difficulty. “I … owe you an apology.”

“What?” Sciss looked up with a distracted expression. “Oh,” he said, thinking he understood what Gregory meant. “No, no. Don’t mention it. It’s not worth making a fuss.”

“I know now why you left your post with the General Staff.”

“So you know,” Sciss said indifferently. He downed his Vermouth in three gulps as if it was tea. The piece of lemon ended up in his mouth; he removed it, held it in his fingers for a moment, then put it back into the empty glass.

“Yes.”

“It’s no secret. I’m surprised you didn’t know all along since you did everything but put me under a microscope…”

“The stories that circulate about someone like you are always contradictory,” Gregory continued, as if he hadn’t heard Sciss’s last remark. “And it’s all either hot or cold, there’s no in-between. Everything depends on the informant. Maybe you’d like to tell me. Why did they take the Operations command away from you?”

“And label me red,” Sciss added. Despite Gregory’s eager interest, he didn’t seem any more lively. Hunched over in his chair, he leaned an arm on the railing. “Why do you want to know?” he asked at last. “It doesn’t make any sense to dig all this up.”

“Did you really predict some kind of holocaust?” Gregory asked in a lowered voice. “Please, this is very important to me. You know how people distort and twist everything. Tell me what really happened.”

“What difference does it make to you?”

“Frankly, I want to find out exactly who you are.”

“That’s an old story,” Sciss said despondently, still squinting at the dancers downstairs. The naked shoulders of the women on the dance floor were bathed in red light. “No, it has nothing to do with a holocaust. Do you really want to know?”

“Very much so.”

“You’re that curious? It was sometime around 1946. The nuclear race was just beginning. I knew that sooner or later a saturation point would be reached—I mean the achievement of maximum destructive force. Then a means of delivering the bombs would be developed … that is, missiles. This had to reach the saturation point also … both sides armed with thermonuclear missiles, the control panels on both sides safely hidden, each one with its infamous button ready. Push the button and the missiles move. Twenty minutes later, the end of the world, both sides
—finis mundi ambilateralis
…”

Sciss smiled. The waiter brought a bottle of wine, uncorked it, and poured a few drops into Gregory’s glass. Gregory tasted it, wet his lips, and nodded his head.

The waiter filled both glasses and walked away.

“That was your opinion in ’46?” Gregory asked, toasting Sciss. The latter tasted the ruby liquid with the tip of his tongue, sipped it carefully, then emptied the glass in one gulp, took a deep breath, and, with a look that was either surprise or embarrassment, put his glass back on the table.

“No, those were only premises. Don’t you understand? Once the race begins, it can’t stop. It has to go on. If one side invents a big gun, the other retaliates with a bigger one. The sequence concludes only when there is a confrontation; that is, war. In this situation, however, confrontation would mean the end of the world; therefore, the race must be kept going. Once they begin to escalate their efforts, both sides are trapped in an arms race. There must be more and more improvements in weaponry, but after a certain point weapons reach their limit. What can be improved next? Brains. The brains that issue the commands. It isn’t possible to make the human brain perfect, so the only alternative is a transition to mechanization. The next stage will be a fully automated headquarters equipped with electronic strategy machines. And then a very interesting problem arises, actually two problems. McCatt called this to my attention. First, is there any limit on the development of these brains? Fundamentally they’re similar to computers that can play chess. A computer that anticipates an opponent’s strategy ten moves in advance will always defeat a computer that can think only eight or nine moves in advance. The more far-reaching a brain’s ability to think ahead, the bigger the brain must be. That’s one.”

Sciss spoke faster and faster. Gregory sensed that he had already forgotten everything, including to whom he was speaking. He poured some wine. Sciss played with his glass for a while, moving it back and forth along the tablecloth and tipping it over precariously. Suddenly, he picked it up and drained it in one gulp. Downstairs, the dance floor was immersed in yellow light and mandolins were crooning a Hawaiian melody.

“Strategic considerations dictate the construction of bigger and bigger machines, and, whether we like it or not, this inevitably means an increase in the amount of information stored in the brains. This in turn means that the brain will steadily increase its control over all of society’s collective processes. The brain will decide where to locate the infamous button. Or whether to change the style of infantry uniforms. Or whether to increase production of a certain kind of steel, demanding appropriations to carry out its purposes. Once you create this kind of brain you have to listen to it. If a Parliament wastes time debating whether or not to grant the appropriations it demands, the other side may gain a lead, so after a while the abolition of parliamentary decisions becomes unavoidable. Human control over the brain’s decisions will decrease in proportion to the increase in its accumulated knowledge. Am I making myself clear? There will be two growing brains, one on each side of the ocean. What do you think a brain like this will demand first when it’s ready to take the next step in the perpetual race?” “An increase in its capability,” Gregory said in a low voice, watching the scientist through half-closed eyelids. An unexpected silence prevailed downstairs for a moment, followed by an outburst of applause. A woman’s voice began singing. A young man in tails set up a small side table on which the waiters placed a tray full of silver serving dishes: carefully heated plates, napkins, and silverware followed.

“No,” Sciss answered. “First it demands its own expansion—that is to say, the brain becomes even bigger! Increased capability comes next.”

“In other words, you predict that the world is going to end up a chessboard, and all of us will be pawns manipulated in an eternal game by two mechanical players.”

Sciss’s facial expression was arrogant. “Yes. Only I’m not predicting, I’m drawing conclusions. We are already at the end of the first stage and the rate of escalation is beginning to increase. All this smacks of the improbable, I admit. But it’s happening, believe me. It is.”

“Yes…” Gregory murmured. He leaned across his plate. “Uh … what would you suggest … about all this?”

“Peace at any price. You may find this odd, but all things considered it seems to me that even extermination would be a lesser evil than the chess game. I’m only drawing conclusions. I don’t have any illusions. That’s pretty awful, you know … not to have illusions.” Sciss poured himself some more wine. Reluctantly, almost compulsively, he kept drinking. Gregory didn’t have to worry about keeping his glass filled. Downstairs, the orchestra started playing again. A couple walked past their table: the man was swarthy with a thin mustache, the paleness of his face emphasized by the bluish streaks of his beard. The girl, very young, had a white stole over her bare shoulders; it was embroidered with gold threads the same color as her hair. Sciss watched as they went by, staring at the girl with his lips contorted in a pained expression. He pushed his plate away, closed his eyes, and hid his hands under the tablecloth. It looked to Gregory as if he was checking his own pulse rate.

“And what shall we do next on this lovely evening that began so splendidly?” Sciss said after a while, raising his eyelids. Smoothing down his gray hair around his ears, he straightened up in his chair. Gregory crossed the silverware on his plate. The waiter came over at once.

“Would you like some coffee?” Gregory asked.

“Yes, good idea,” Sciss agreed. He kept his hands hidden under the tablecloth.

“I think I’m drunk…” he smiled in embarrassment, looking around with a surprised, uncertain expression.

“It does you good every once in a while,” Gregory said, pouring only for himself.

The coffee was hot and strong. They drank it in silence. It was stuffy and getting stuffier. Gregory looked around for the waiter and, not seeing him, stood up. He found him behind a column near the bar and asked to have the windows opened. By the time he got back to the table a cool, delicate whiff of air was already moving the steam rising above their coffee cups. Sciss was still in his chair, leaning against the railing, his red eyes drooping. He was breathing heavily and the small hard veins of his temple were protruding.

“Do you feel all right?” Gregory asked.

“I can’t take alcohol,” Sciss said with his eyes closed. “That is, my organism can’t. My insides are all muddled, simply muddled, that’s all.”

“I’m sorry,” said Gregory.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Sciss kept his eyes closed. “Let’s not talk about it.”

“Were you against a preventive war? I mean back in ’46.”

“Yes. But no one really believed it would work, even the people who were advocating it. There wasn’t any psychological readiness at the time. We were all under the spell of a universal peace euphoria. You know, if you proceeded gradually, you could lead anyone—even the College of Cardinals—into the practice of cannibalism. But you must move slowly, step by step. Exactly like now.”

“What did you do then?”

“Various things. I started many things but actually wasn’t able to finish any of them. I was the proverbial stone on which the scythes were sharpened, you see, and nothing much ever comes from that. I won’t finish this last case either. I always run into a dead end. Bah, if only I believed in determinism … but with me it’s all due to a character defect—I can’t compromise.”

“You’re not married, are you?”

“No.”

Sciss gave Gregory a suspicious look.

“Why do you ask?”

Gregory shrugged his shoulders.

“Simply … I wanted to know. Excuse me if—”

“Outmoded institution…” Sciss muttered. “I don’t have any children either, if you want all the details. Well, maybe if they could be created intellectually… I don’t care too much for this genetic lottery, you see. It looks like I’m your guest—shall we leave now?”

Gregory paid. As they were going down the stairs the orchestra bid them farewell with some ear-piercing jazz. They had to slip around the edge of the dance floor, jostled by the dancing couples. Once through the revolving doors, Sciss, with a sigh of relief, took a deep breath of cool air.

“Thank you … for everything,” he said languidly. Gregory followed him to the cars. Sciss had some trouble finding the key in his pocket. He opened the door, unbuttoned his coat, then took it off and threw it onto the back seat. He sat down behind the steering wheel. Gregory stood beside the car.

Sciss didn’t close the door and didn’t move.

“I can’t drive…” he said.

“Move over, I’ll drive you,” Gregory offered.

He bent down to get in.

“But what about your car?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I can come back for it.”