Unfortunately, it seemed that the unshadowy world of hard and superabundant data had yet to be persuaded to explain how it had produced the eccentric masterpiece of mere appearances which was the murder of Gabriel King.

“I’m afraid that the man behind Rappaccini Inc. is proving rather evasive,” Hal told his visitors offhandedly, while his eyes continued to scan his screens.

“His business dealings are fairly elaborate, but he’s been effectively invisible for a long time. Jafri Biasiolo still holds a flag-of-convenience citizenship in the Kalahari Republic, but he has no recorded residency. There’s no record of his death, but he seems to have faded out of fleshy existence by degrees. The currently listed telephonic addresses of his pseudonym are black boxes, and all his financial transactions are conducted by silver-level computer-synthesized simulacra; the implication is that Biasiolo has constructed an entirely new identity under a different name. That’s not so very unusual these days, of course, especially among those older people whose reflexive response to increasing intensity of observation is to devise ever more elaborate means of hiding. Most of the macabre stories about people dying and nobody finding out for years because their sims keep up a ghostly dialogue with the world are exaggerated, but a man who seriously wants to vanish behind a smoke screen of electronic appearances can produce some very dense smoke. Any who then decide to recreate themselves as someone else can just as easily manufacture a new electronic identity. My surfers will winkle out the truth about Rappaccini eventually, but it all takes time, and time is the great enemy.” “Timing is the essence of any psychodrama,” said Oscar Wilde. Michael Lowenthal gave no overt indication that he or his employers felt any particular sense of urgency, but Charlotte knew that he would not be here if they did not.

“The story so far is that Jafri Biasiolo first became manifest as Rappaccini in 2380,” Hal continued evenly. “That’s when he registered as a member with the Institute of Genetic Art in Sydney. He participated in a number of public exhibitions, including the Great Exhibition of 2405, sometimes putting in personal appearances. Unlike other genetic engineers specializing in flowering plants, Rappaccini never got involved in designing gardens or in the kind of interior decoration that is Dr. Wilde’s chief source of income. He appears to have specialized almost exclusively in the design of funeral wreaths, although his unusual patterns of expenditure suggest that he may have been involved in other business activities under other names.” “What unusual patterns of expenditure?” Lowenthal wanted to know.

“He was a heavy investor in encephalic augmentation research. So was Gabriel King, it seems.” It took Charlotte a second or two to realize that “encephalic augmentation” was the polite term for brain-feed technology. “But that’s illegal!” she blurted out, knowing as soon as the words had passed her lips that it was a stupid thing to say. Attempts to augment the capabilities of the brain by stimulating the growth of extra neurons which could then be hooked up via synthetic synapses to inorganic electronic equipment were currently hedged around by all manner of legal restrictions, as human genetic engineering had been in the days that Oscar Wilde still remembered less than fondly—but those laws were mostly of recent origin. Gabriel King and Jafri Biasiolo were very old men.

“There’s still scope for legitimate inquiry,” was all that Hal said in reply.

Charlotte frowned, realizing that he was being deliberately terse. Obviously, this was a link he was still chasing hard. Lowenthal’s lovely face was impassive, but Charlotte wasn’t convinced that he thought the detail insignificant.

“Rappaccini Inc.’s flowers have always been grown under contract by middlemen,” Hal continued, evidently more than willing to share this aspect of his inquiry.

“Insofar as the corporation can be said to have a home base, it’s located in Australia, in a sector of what used to be called the outback that was re-irrigated for conventional use in the days before the advent of Solid Artificial Photosynthesis. We’re checking the routes by which seeds used to be delivered to the growing areas, trying to backtrack them to the laboratories of origin. Unfortunately, it seems that Rappaccini Inc. hasn’t put anything really new onto the market in forty years, even though the increasing ostentation of funerals has boosted its profits enormously. Nor has Jafri Biasiolo appeared in public during that time. He still has bank accounts drawing royalty credit from the corporation, but nobody within the organization has had any personal contact with him since 2430. It’s probable that he’s been using at least one other name for at least the last sixty-five years—possibly more than one.

“By virtue of his flag-of-convenience citizenship, Biasiolo avoided inclusion in most official records, but there is a DNA print allegedly taken immediately after birth. It doesn’t match any other print registered to any living person, but he evidently made a thorough job of building a new identity; the print attached to his current name is probably fake. Rappaccini continued to maintain a telephone persona until 2460 or thereabouts, but the sim involved was an elementary sloth. I can’t tell whether it was taken off-line or simply broke down. There aren’t many programs like that still functioning.” “Walter Czastka has one,” Charlotte put in.

“The only surprise in that instance,” Oscar Wilde adjudged, “is that Walter is still functioning.” “Given that he still hasn’t returned my call,” Charlotte observed, “he might not be.” “Have you turned up anything which might suggest a possible motive for King’s murder?” asked Lowenthal, who presumably suspected—as Charlotte did—that Hal’s concentration on the mystery of Rappaccini’s new identity might be something of a red herring screening the real substance of his investigation.

“We’re delving into King’s background, of course,” Hal assured him. “If there’s a motive in his financial affairs, we’ll find it. We’re examining every conversation he’s had since coming to New York, and we’re examining all activity in opposition to his demolition work. The truly remarkable thing about the murder is, however, the method. If we can understand that, we might be in a better position to understand the motive. Like Sergeant Holmes, I’m disappointed that Walter Czastka hasn’t returned our call. If he were to confirm Dr. Wilde’s judgment that the flowers were designed by Rappaccini…” “He won’t,” said Oscar Wilde airily.

“Why not?” asked Charlotte.

“Because the judgment required a sense of style,” Wilde said. “Walter has none.

He never had.” “According to our database,” Hal observed, “he’s the top man in the field of flower design—or was, until he retired to his private island to play the Creationist.” “Databases are incapable of forming opinions,” Wilde stated firmly. “The figures presumably show that Walter has made more money than anyone else out of engineered flowers. That is not at all the same thing as being the best designer. Walter was always a mass-producer, not an artist. Ancient Nature provided all his models, and such amendments as he made to the stocks extracted from the arks were mere tinkering. I’m afraid that you will be unable to find anyone capable of reassuring you that my identification of Rappaccini as the designer of Gabriel’s executioner was not a self-protective lie. The only man I ever knew with sufficient sense of style to be capable of offering an informed opinion is, I fear, Rappaccini himself.” He might have said more but was interrupted by a quiet beep from one of Hal’s comcons. A silver was reporting news that required Hal’s immediate attention.

The conversation lapsed while the Webwalker’s fingers raced back and forth across the relevant keyboard for a few seconds. The pregnant silence persisted while Hal stared thoughtfully at a screen half-hidden from Charlotte’s view.