“Why did you kill him?”

“Pain is the key word. It reminds us that we’re alive. It’s the sweetness of life.”

“WHY DID YOU KILL HIM?”

“He was half a man. He couldn’t feel the pain to its utmost. He could not realize that he lived. He just did not die on time.”

 

 

The famous writer Lyndon Harris was driving on the highway, connecting San Francisco and Los Angeles. The computer net, covering the whole globe, had taken control over his car, and entering the co-ordinates of his destination was the only thing he had to do. So, he was looking through the window, watching the cars that were speeding in both directions in the eight lanes. That scene was monotonous to a great extent, and he soon grew bored with it. He reached out to the other seat, and took a bar of chocolate out of the box, unwrapped it, and put it in his mouth. Then he closed his eyes, and enjoyed the taste.

He swallowed the last bit of chocolate, and opened his eyes. He looked at the sky. The meteorologists had done their best, and the warm spring sun was piercing through the receding smog. It pleased his eye, and he kept his gaze on it for a while, then returned his attention to the highway. He noticed that the car had slightly speeded up, and had moved to the left-most lane. I didn’t say I was in a hurry, he thought, but he did not order the computer to slow down. The speed was not that fast, so he would have time for a cup of cappuccino before the meeting with his editor. He turned on the radio, and found a station that was playing old hits. He turned the volume up a bit, and closed his eyes again so that he could be able to enjoy the music better.

He was absorbed in the music and failed to observe that the car had speeded above the limitation. He did not open his eyes until the centre of his gravity was dislocated by the sharp left turn. Lyndon was terrified to notice that his car was cutting through the opposite lanes, heading for the slowest lane where trucks were driving. Slowest — yes, but not a slow one at all, he thought. The slowest trucks are driving at more than 100 miles per hour. It was strange why this was his very first thought. The logical one came second. Whoever it is that may be trying to kill me, will obviously succeed this time. Thrice for luck, but not for me. Twice I got away by a hair’s breadth, now I won’t.

Yet, he got away again. Luckily, the car did not reach the trucks’ lane. One of the cars coming opposite him grazed his car, and it swiveled. Then another one hit him square, and started pushing him. His car coiled lovingly around the front part of the one that hit him, but his half remained untouched. After passing half a mile like that, the whole traffic stopped abruptly as if cut by a knife. Obviously, the computerized ground-traffic control had detected the intruder in the system, and had removed him, after which it had stopped the cars. Or the attacker had just quit, since things were not going on as planned. Lyndon’s car went on sliding sideways, driven by the inertia, then it stopped too. He unbuckled his seat-belt, which was the sole reason for him being alive, and got out. He checked at his body, and found no injuries. He had gotten away with just one bump on the head, after all the jolt. The pain was not much, and he did not reach for the painkillers. Instead, he lit a cigarette, leaned on the car, and waited for the police. Maybe now they would believe him.

* * *

“Good morning, Detective McManaman,” Lyndon Harris said with a smile. “I’m glad to see you.” He was still under the influence of the euphoria — happy to have survived for the third time. Fourth, in fact. Before the three attempts on his life, he had met eye to eye with death in an accident and he had cheated on her. Since then, death seemed to be trying to hunt him down and finish its job, but he was always good at escaping unscathed. He had had a great run of luck and he knew it, but he was getting so dangerously close to thinking that he was immortal, that if it lasted some more time he might start believing it.

Immortal, he might have been — but not invulnerable. If we exclude the numerous grazes, bruises, bumps and scars, anyway, he lost more than he gained by continuing to live. After the accident that had triggered the succession of lucky escapes, he had lost most of his memory. Amnesia, doctors said. It is a miracle that you are still alive, others added. It may be for a short period of time or it may be for life — different doctors had different opinions, but that phrase was what united them. Just a ridiculous oversight, and we lost such a talent, complained his fans, and, most of all, his editors.

A keen diver, Harris was using the little free time he had to explore the depths of the Pacific. During one of his numerous divings, the hose of the oxygen bottle had played a nasty trick on him. The small hole in the old hose had let out enough oxygen, and Harris had sunk to the, luckily, not deep bottom. In spite of his great experience — or may be just because of that — he never dived alone, and his partner soon found him, and took him out. He had remained without oxygen for less than three minutes, but that was enough to affect his brain. When he regained his consciousness in the hospital, he could not remember his name, nor what he did for a living. The worst was that he could not arrange a few sentences in a paragraph, not to speak of writing a whole story. The doctors scanned his brain with all the equipment they had, but they could not help him. At last, they discharged him from the hospital, and he returned to his modest apartment in San Francisco. Although he had a lot of money, he had never liked needless ostentation.

“And I’m not at all glad to see you,” Detective Pierce McManaman retorted, frowning. It was still 11:00 am, but it seemed that everyone had decided that he was the main cause for World War I and II, the ozone hole, and the assassination attempt on the life of the Pope — and they wanted to blacken his life, in general, and his day, in particular. He had come home late last night as usual, and had had only five hours of sleep. The fourth coffee he was drinking and the tenth cigarette he was smoking could not make his eyelids open more than a half of their potential. He had had the umpteenth quarrel with his wife in the morning, and he had given up breakfast, for it was the only chance to disappear as fast as he could from her view. His boss had been unsatisfied with his work again, and had set unrealistically short time limits for closing a few extremely complicated cases. The computers could help him to find the desired people, but that was all. They were full of information, but a computer, which would think better — not faster — than man, was yet to be invented. And, in days like these, the Detective’s head was better suited to be used as soccer ball, than for thinking. His partner was in hospital with a head injury and a couple of broken ribs, so he had to take over his paperwork, too. To top it all, the former writer of best-sellers was sitting in front of his half-closed eyes, and was grinning as if he had won the lottery.

“Isn’t it strange, Detective? We meet for only the third time, and I already have the feeling that you hate me.”

McManaman grunted, and spared himself the trouble of answering. He hated people that were pretending to be witty. Most of all, when they got paid for that. Thank God, I don’t have to deal with Lyndon Harris in his full blaze of glory, he thought. This man is driving me crazy with the remarks born out of his half-empty brain — I wonder what he had been, before the accident. To the Detective, the name of the writer was no more familiar than the name of the president of Bulgaria. Even if he had any free time — which he did not — he would never read a book. Books of fiction did not appeal to him, and crime novels especially disgusted him with their imaginary characters and supersmart cops.

Harris, unlike him, had started reading almost fluently at the age of six, and since then he had spent many happy hours in the fictitious worlds of books. Later on, he had found out that he had been able to connect the different sentences in veritable stories, and he had decided to become a writer and nothing else. With a lot of hard work and perseverance, he had managed to make a name for himself as a gifted writer, and he had defended it for almost ten years. Until the tragic incident. After being discharged from the hospital, he had gotten down to reading, because he hadn’t been able to do what had been so easy for him before. He had started re-reading his own works, hoping that he might find within them the spark to ignite his lost memory. This brought him no other result, than a real admiration for his own style. He had decided to meet with his editor, and talk to her. Maybe she could help him remember something. But before that, it had been destined that he was to fight for his life — twice.

The first assault at him was in his own apartment. Harris was turning over the pages of his first novel, the same one that had launched him into stardom. Suddenly, a particular smell irritated his nostrils. The memory about the moment he had ran out of oxygen returned to his head, and he panicked, but he soon pulled himself together. At first, he thought that he had forgotten something in the oven, and it had burned, but the smell was different. Gas, he realized and hurried towards the kitchen. Yes, gas was running out of the cooker, and it had filled the whole room. He breathed in a big gulp of fresh air, and went inside. He tried to stop the gas, but he could not. Damned valves and hoses, he thought. Not again! He ran to the window, and tried to open it. He failed again. The windows in the other rooms resisted him, too. His last hope — the front door — was like nailed, and wouldn’t give in. The damned computer managing his apartment refused to identify his voice, and wouldn’t open neither the door, nor the windows — not even light the lamps. Harris was breathing heavily, like a bull, hit between the horns. He thought this was changing his voice, and ordered himself to calm down and repeat the commands. The computer still did not obey him. And the gas was already filling the other rooms. A single match would be enough to blow away the whole building, but he did not intend to do such a mistake. Instead, he went to the closet where his tools were kept. He liked to do small repairs in his apartment, and this habit might save his life. He was completely sure that he had an axe somewhere, and he wanted to break down the door with it, but he could not find it. He had to make do with a big hammer. With it, and a solid wooden chair from the end of the nineteenth century, he managed to break one of the windows. Plastics fell down from the seventeenth floor, and he looked down to check if anyone had been hurt. A few minutes later, the gas stopped running out, and the computer “recognized” his voice. Harris called the police, and sat down, waiting. He took out a cigarette, and was about to light it, when he decided that this was not the way he wanted to check if the apartment was fully ventilated or not.

The officers came with their usual delay. They looked around the apartment, took down his testimony, promised to call him. They stated their version about a damage in the computer system, advised him to call a technician to check it, asked him not to bother them with trifles, and left.

Harris knew that they were probably right, and it had been only a coincidence, but it kept bothering him that a hose was present in both cases. The technician, who came on the next day, did not find anything wrong. Harris waited for a couple of days, and went to the precinct. They forwarded him to Detective McManaman, and that was their first meeting. The Detective listened to him politely, until the writer stated his theory about the connection between the two cases – then, even more politely, told him to go home. He explained to the writer that such things happen, that even men, who are smarter, make mistakes, let alone computers. Harris left the precinct almost convinced, but not calmed down. And he had every right not to be calm. When he got home, and the lift took him up to his floor, the door refused to open. He tried to augment his voice with his hands, and pushed at the door after repeating his command, but the communication between man and computer produced no effect. Suddenly, the lift gave way, and he got glued to the ceiling. The first fail-safe brake came to life — it killed some of the speed, and he kissed the floor. But someone — or something — turned it off, and he was on the ceiling again. The second fail-safe brake switched on — he was on the floor again. Switched off — on the ceiling. Third, and last, brake switched on — on the floor. Switched off — and, in the middle of his usual flight between the two very hard surfaces, the lift reached the lowest floor, and it had no more space for falling. Harris sprawled down again, not from that high this time. He was alive. It was more dangerous, but he had survived once more, at the cost of a sprained ankle, a dozen of bruises, as well as a bump on the head. Blood was running down his face, and it was flowing into his right eye, but it soon stopped. And that was all. He could still breathe, and he could even walk, if he did not press too heavily on his injured foot.

From the hospital, where his ankle was set and his forehead bandaged, he went straight back to the precinct. The Detective was terribly surprised to see him again. He was less polite this time, and even less politely told him to get out of his sight, because he had a lot of things to do. And Harris got out of his sight. But he wanted to feel safer, so he rented an apartment on the second floor, and always kept a window open and wedged, so that it could not be closed. Thus, he spent a few cloudless days. Until the moment he decided to go to Los Angeles.

This led to his third encounter with Detective McManaman, who was now far from polite. Harris probed to break the ice with a question.

“Do you believe me now? Three coincidences in less than a week are too much, don’t you think?”

McManaman stared at him for quite a long time. He did not utter a word again. His head was starting to throb, and his only thoughts were connected with finding an aspirin. Harris broke the silence with a statement that surprised the Detective.

“Look, Detective. I don’t like you — you like me even less. But can’t we forget about our personal misunderstandings, and do our job?”

“Is it so obvious? Besides, why are you talking about ‘our job’? As far as I can remember, it is my job, not yours.”

“Yes, but it concerns me more than you. Someone is trying to kill me, not you. Wouldn’t it be better if you catch him now, rather than after he kills me?”

“No, we may have more clues then, and it will be easier to catch him,” the Detective bared his teeth. The pain in his head increased. He got up and opened the window. The cigarette smoke clashed with the fresh air, and blocked its way. He let them settle it between themselves, and left the room, barely saying to the writer “Wait here!” He found a box of aspirin, and swallowed two pills. While he was waiting for them to take effect, he smoked another cigarette, then returned to his office. The fresh air had won the battle, despite the support the smoke received by Harris. McManaman sat down, cleared his throat, and said: “I’m sorry about the last remark I made. I’ve been having a terrible headache since I woke up, and I see everything black. There was no reason to take it out on you — it’s just that you happen to be here.”

“It’s alright, detective. Everyone can have a bad day.”

It’s just that I have too many of them lately, McManaman thought. Aloud, he said: “Let’s see what we can do about ‘our job’. Do you have any idea who might be trying to kill you?”

“My publishers, may be,” Harris smiled. “More publicity around my name means bigger circulations of my books, and that means that more money will go into their pockets. And if I’m dead they’ll keep it for themselves, not paying for my copyrights.”

“I thought you wanted me to find a potential killer, not talk wisecracks. If you are so in love with your voice, go talk over the radio.”

“Hmm, it is my turn to say I’m sorry, Detective. I can see that you are talking business, and you’re seriously working on the case. To answer your question truthfully, I have no idea. But one thing is clear – our killer is an excellent computer specialist.”

“It’s not necessary. Money can buy you anything. The hackers are able to enter any computer network. The question is who hates you so much, that he is in such a hurry to attend your funeral. If we find the answer to that, we’ll get our man, whether he’s operating independently, or there are more of them.”

“I don’t know, Detective. I guess that there is more about me in my record, than in my memory. I know nothing about my previous life. I’m trying to remember, but it’s not working. Even the stress I was under last week did not have any effect upon me. As you know, I was going to L.A. to talk to my editor. After that I intended to visit my ex-wife, and so on. The doctors are not giving me much hopes, but I have nothing else to do. What’s more, I have more money than I can spend during my whole life.”

“Yeah, your ex-wife. Could she have any interest in your death? Is her name mentioned in your will?”

“No, I have changed it after the divorce. Besides, apart from the millions she took then, she’s receiving a monthly alimony. If I’m dead her money’s dead, too.”

“Why didn’t you go to Phoenix, to talk to your memory recording there? It might refresh your memory.”

“What is there in Phoenix?”

“The new Centre of Psychological Research. They found a way to save people’s memory inside a computer. They are doing some kind of tests with it, and, naturally, they keep the results a secret, but that’s a different topic. So far, they have recorded the memories of serial killers, self-made men — all kinds of people with IQs below and above the average. The serial killers were forced to do it, but all the rest were kindly asked. You’re in there too, and you knew it, but I wonder why no one told you about that after the accident. I’m sure they’ll let you talk to yourself — they should make an exception in your case. Otherwise, they update their records every six months. They summon the people, and add their new memories, ideas, points of view, to the recordings. So, your memory can’t be more than half a year old. The only problem is that they can extract it from your brain, but they haven’t learned yet how to put it back there, if it comes to a case like you.”

“Then I’ll go there. I might remember something useful,” Harris got excited.

“We’ll both go there. I need to ask them some questions that you can’t answer. And you’ll feel much safer if you travel with an officer of the law.”

“Perfect. When are we leaving?” the writer asked enthusiastically.

“Right away. There’s a police helicopter on the roof. The sooner we have more information, the sooner we’ll catch our man.”

* * *

The detective was right. The scientists were more than happy to have a new test animal. They welcomed Harris with open arms, and took him to a computer terminal. But they did not forget to put reels in the six cameras that covered the room from every possible angle. Standard procedure, they said. What McManaman did not know, and Harris had forgotten, was that he had come there often in the past. The scientists had on tape quite a number of hours of long conversations between Harris and Harris-Memory. The latter had written an impressive number of novels in the free time he had in excess, and both Harrises had spent a lot of time discussing different ideas.

The two men sat in front of the screen that already displayed the face of the writer. The face spoke first: “Welcome back. Do you have any new ideas that I haven’t thought of already?”

The detective cut in. “I’m Detective Pierce McManaman from SFPD. I don’t think you can discuss any ideas, at least, not now. Instead, I intend to ask you a few questions to start with.”

“Why the rush, Detective? I have plenty of time. And I’ve always liked talking to myself. Do you know that when I have his new memories added, we think in an identical way — but he has a constant access to people, he leads new conversations with them, while I’m isolated in here. So, our ways of thinking take different directions, and right before the next transfer we’re quite different again. It’s the most interesting time for both of us. He hasn’t come for a long time, and we have a lot to share. But let it be your way,” the computer simulation resigned. “One can learn how to be patient in here. Ask your questions.”

“Let me explain something to you before we begin, so that you might understand that we are having a serious talk now,” McManaman started. “You have an amnesia. I mean, not you but him. He doesn’t remember a second of his life as a writer, that’s why I don’t think he has any ideas in his head which to discuss with you…”

“What?” Harris-M interrupted him. “It can’t be! You don’t know what this means to me. This is worse than prison — at least, there you can scratch your body if it itches. In here, the only thing we can do is think. If my source of new ideas stops bringing me new information, I’d be worse than those idiots.”

“What idiots?” Harris was interested.

“The ones with IQ below 80. They’re better off — at least they can’t think,” Harris-M answered him.

“And what are they doing all the time?”

“Absolutely nothing. You might say they are in a coma, after being relieved of the responsibilities of thinking what clothes to wear or what to eat.”

“Excuse me for breaking into your dialogue, but I’d like to do my job first,” the Detective cut in. “Mr. Harris…”

“Harris-M.”

“OK. Mr. Harris-M, after Mr. Harris lost his memory, there had been three attempts on his life. Do you have any idea who might want him dead?”

“None, whatsoever. I am — or maybe, he is — or maybe, he was — the top bestselling author alive. Everybody loved him.”

“Can you imagine for a minute that you are in court, under oath, and try to suppress your ego. I need some sincere answers, not the statements of a megalomaniac. That will do good to both of you.”

“It’s hard. First, I wouldn’t be offended like that in court. Second, how would you punish a computer for committing perjury? I have no body, and the worries of the perishable creatures about their physical well-being don’t concern me at all. Third, you have no way to tell by the expression of my face if I’m lying or not. I control it a hundred times better than the most skillful liar.”

“I can give you a reason for helping me. If you don’t want to do it for Lyndon Harris, then do it for Lyndon Harris-M. If you help me stop the attempts on his life, he’ll be able to come and talk to you in the future. Which won’t be possible if he is six feet under.”

“Make him check his IQ, first. As far as I realized from what you were saying, for the time being, he has no ideas that can interest me.”

“The doctors said it was possible for him to regain his memory. Then you’ll have your good old company back.”

“It’s possible. And yet, the other option is far more possible.”

“Will you help me or not?” McManaman got really angry.

“Calm down, Detective. I have nothing to hide. But, as I told you, I had no enemies.”

“Had? You mean that Harris had no enemies, before becoming part of the computer as Harris-M, and he still has none? Or that Harris had no enemies, but he already has? I don’t understand whether you’re talking on your behalf, or on the behalf of both of you.”

“Both, of course. I possess all the memory Harris once had, and if he had any enemies I would be the first to know. This man here, having the body of Lyndon Harris — and an insignificant part of his memory — has obviously made some enemies of his own, quite serious enemies, I guess.”

“Is this all you can tell me?”

“This is all I remember for now, and I have an excellent memory,” the image on the screen stretched its lips in a kind of smile.

The Detective was angry. Everyone tried to be wise that day. He decided to leave the room, and observe the rest of the conversation on the monitors of the cameras. He told Harris that he would wait to take him back to San Francisco, and went out. Let’s see if he can outsmart his own self, McManaman thought.

There was not much to be seen. Harris-M did not change his attitude at all. He told Harris a few short events from his life, that did not help the detective much. They did not help Harris, too, and he left the Centre disappointed. Both men got on the helicopter and left.

Harris-M returned to the vast hall, that represented the computer’s memory from the inside. It looked vast for the immaterial memories, who were passing through each other like ghosts. Every time Harris-M returned there, he was reminded of the old question ‘How many devils can stand on the top of a pin?’ Too many, the obvious answer was.

“Killer!” he called out.

A dark shadow appeared out of the nothingness, and neared him. The other memories made way for it, then got away as far as they could. The memory of one of the most cruel serial killers was terrifying them, even when he had no way of hurting them physically.

“Go ahead, Smarty.” Maybe his voice was the reason. The voice of a man you would not want to meet in the dark, where you could not see him. Your imagination would kill you before he even touched you.

“Infiltrate the computerized air-traffic control. They are flying back to San Francisco by helicopter. There is no chance for them to survive the fall. Don’t fail any more, Killer.”

“OK, Smarty. And don’t forget you owe me one.”

“Scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours, Killer. But don’t fail any more.”

 

 

The End