Lowenthal had turned back to Wilde, but his expression did not seem to be redolent with suspicion; Charlotte hoped that her own was equally opaque.

After half a minute or so, Hal said: “You might be interested to see this, Dr.

Wilde.” He pointed to the biggest of his display screens, which was mounted high on the wall directly in front of them. His fingers danced from one keyboard to another, and then another.

A picture appeared on the left of the screen, covering about a third of the display area. It showed a tall man with silver hair, a dark beard trimmed into a goatee, and a prominent nose.

“Jafri Biasiolo, alias Rappaccini, in 2381,” Hal said.

He pressed more keys, and another image appeared in the center of the screen.

This one showed two men side by side, apparently posing for the camera. One of them was clearly the same man whose image was on the left of the screen.

“Isn’t that…?” Charlotte began as she recognized the other.

“I fear that it is,” said Wilde regretfully. “I looked a lot older then, of course. The photograph was taken in 2405,1 believe, at the Sydney exhibition.” “It was 2405,” agreed Hal. At the command of his fingers a third picture appeared, again showing Biasiolo alone. This time, Charlotte realized why Hal had taken the trouble to display them.

“This is 2430,” Hal said. “Rappaccini’s last personal appearance in the corridors of his own organization.” There was hardly any difference between the three images of Jafri Biasiolo. The man had evidently not undergone a full rejuvenation between 2381 and 2430, although he must surely have employed conventional methods of light cosmetic reconstruction to maintain the appearance of dignified middle age.

“If he really was born in 2323 he seems to have delayed rejuvenation far longer than was usual,” said Lowenthal pensively.

“He must have had a comprehensive rejuve very soon after the last picture was taken,” Hal agreed. “He probably came out with a very different appearance as well as a new name—but now we know the approximate date, I can set a silver to trawl all the records.” “On the other hand,” Lowenthal suggested, “he could have used purely cosmetic somatic engineering to appear older than he actually was in 2381.” “If he was actually born considerably later than 2323 he might have falsely assumed the identity of Jafri Biasiolo,” Hal conceded. “It’s possible that he always maintained a second identity alongside his manifestations as Rappaccini and merely reverted in 2430 to being the person he’s really been all along. It’s a pity that picture-search programs are so unreliable—very messy data. That’s why it’s proving so difficult to track the woman who visited Gabriel King’s apartment. There are plenty of cameras on those streets, and the silvers which are interrogating them are state-of-the-art, but a little old-fashioned paint and powder and a wig can cause a great deal of confusion when half the people on the street have modified themselves to fit a currently fashionable ideal. We’re checking all the passengers who took the maglev to San Francisco during the twenty-four hours after she left the apartment, of course.” There was another beep. Charlotte knew immediately, by virtue of the expression of relief that formed on Hal’s face, that it was Regina Chai’s forensic report.

Hal immediately began printing out a gentemplate, presumably that of the flowers which had consumed Gabriel King’s flesh, but he didn’t watch its emergence from the printer’s mouth. His fingers were dancing with what seemed to Charlotte to be impossible rapidity, and he was watching a virtual display whose detail she could not make out at all.

“We’ve got a good DNA print of the woman from the bedsheet detritus,” he said eventually, sounding far less enthusiastic than he should have. “Unfortunately, we can’t get a match with the print of any living person. Ordinarily, that would imply that she must be much older than she seems—” “But in this case,” said Oscar Wilde, “it might mean that I was wrong to suggest that it would be impossible to raise a child in absolute seclusion in today’s world.” “What do you mean by ordinarily?” Charlotte asked Hal, judging from his expression that he had not even considered Wilde’s caveat.

Hal glanced at Michael Lowenthal before replying. “Regina says that the woman’s DNA trace also shows evidence of some rather idiosyncratic somatic engineering.

It’s possible that the tissues which left the traces on King’s bedsheets have been deliberately modified to obscure the print—to make sure that it wouldn’t match the woman’s natal record. We’re conducting a more detailed search for near matches, but I don’t know how far we can narrow down the field of suspects, or how fast.” Michael Lowenthal nodded, as if the bad news was not unexpected.

“Did you check the print against Rappaccini’s?” asked Wilde.

“It’s been very carefully checked against Biasiolo’s, in toto and piece by piece,” said Hal carefully. “The basic similarity index is only forty-one percent, but inspection of individual key sequences suggests that it might well have been fifty percent before the somatic modifications were made. If so, the woman could be Biasiolo’s daughter, even though there’s no official record of his ever having fathered, or even fostered, a child.” Wilde nodded sagely, as if this datum confirmed every impression he had so far formed about the nature and twisted logic of the crime.

Hal handed Wilde the other gentemplate, which had now printed out in full with all its associated annotations. “Your sense of style has taken you as far as it can, Dr. Wilde,” he said. “It’s time for some hard work now. We need your expert opinion as a genetic engineer—everything you can tell us about the nature of the plant and the level of biohazard it poses. Do you want a workstation here, or would you rather use a private cubbyhole?” “I’ll need access to my own records,” Wilde said in a thoroughly businesslike manner. “Any VE hood will do; I won’t be distracted by conversation.” “I think it’s best if you’re privacy-screened anyway,” said Hal, for reasons which Charlotte was easily able to deduce. “If you’ll come this way, I’ll get you set up.” Charlotte and Michael Lowenthal looked on as Hal guided the awkwardly oversized Wilde through an inconveniently narrow gap in his labyrinth. Charlotte knew that she ought to say something, if only for the sake of conversation, but she didn’t know what, so she kept silent. Lowenthal didn’t step in to fill the gap.

Charlotte made herself busy picking up streamers of printout from Hal’s machines, scanning the data accumulated by his silvers. She couldn’t help nurturing the frail hope that there might be something there which Hal had considered too trivial to mention but which might in the fullness of time prove to be the nub of the case. She looked for a streamer holding data relating to Oscar Wilde, but none came readily to hand. She did, however, pick up a stray sheet which contained cross-correlated data on Gabriel King and Michael Lowenthal—and instantly lowered her head lest her expression attract the interest of her companion.

The page revealed that Lowenthal and King had been simultaneously involved—along with dozens of others—in a series of Web conferences relating to the plans for New York’s reconstruction. Lowenthal had been present in the capacity of an observer, allegedly reporting to the boards of eight different corporations.

Five of the names were unfamiliar to Charlotte, but that was irrelevant; the fact that Lowenthal was reporting to all eight implied that they were mere parts of a greater whole: the huge cartel which was the engine of the world economy.

The industrial/entertainment complex which most people nowadays referred to as the MegaMall was a constant preserice in Charlotte’s life, as it was in everyone’s, but it had always been a background, unobtrusive precisely because it was so all-pervasive. She had learned in school, if not actually at the manifold knees of her foster mothers, that the MegaMall was a private corporation, and that effective ownership of the world’s entire means of production had long rested in the hands of a few hundred individuals, but the thought had never crossed her mind that one day she might actually meet a flesh-and-blood individual who belonged—however peripherally or provisionally—to that intimate inner circle. Nor had it occurred to her that the MegaMall’s administrators, whether reckoned as the Hardinist Cabal or any of the ironic alternatives that Hal had proffered, must already have set plans in place to hand over their empire to a favored few of the New Human Race. Now, though, she tried to force her attention away from the infuriating Oscar Wilde in order to focus her thoughts on the quieter of her new companions, and the question of exactly what his interest in this puzzling affair might be.