Maybe all this flimflam with Wilde, Czastka, and Rappaccini is just a smoke screen, Charlotte thought. Maybe its sole purpose is to blind the silvers with superfluity, to distract us from the real pattern. But what could that pattern possibly be? As the data tying Gabriel King to Paul Kwiatek’s allegedly esoteric and uncommercial research continued to accumulate, Charlotte saw that Gabriel King had not been quite as colorless a character as Oscar Wilde had implied. Perhaps no one was who had lived a hundred and ninety-four years and had learned along the way to despise the affectations and showmanship of men like Wilde. But if King, Urashima, and Kwiatek had been murdered for business reasons, what could those reasons be? And who was the mysterious female assassin? Charlotte broke in on the data stream and said: “Hal—is there any news of Kwiatek yet?” “Any time now,” he said. “They’re executing the entry warrant as we speak, although the building supervisor’s doing his level best to obstruct them.

Protecting the privacy of his tenants, he says. What he’s paid for. Any idea where you’re headed yet?” Charlotte glanced out of the window, but there was nothing to be seen now except the eight lanes of the superhighway. “Mexico City, for now,” she said. “Exactly how far toward it we’ll go—or how much further beyond it—is anyone’s guess. Is there any sign of the woman traveling south out of San Francisco?” “No match yet,” Hal admitted. “As I said, the money trail’s looking better than the picture trail, for the moment. Hold on… they’re in Kwiatek’s apartment now.

No sign of him, unless he’s in the cradle…” Charlotte looked up. Michael Lowenthal was peering through the gap between the headrest of his seat and the drive compartment. Oscar Wilde seemed equally rapt, although his posture was as languid as ever.

“Yes,” said Hal, evidently dividing himself between two conversations. “In the cradle. That’s confirmed. Kwiatek’s dead—same method. We already have a fourth name that may have to be added to the list, but it’s going to take time to get investigators out to the place where he’s supposed to be. Same pattern—no response even to top-priority calls.” “Who?” said Lowenthal.

“Magnus Teidemann—the ecologist. Graduated from the University of Wollongong in 2322, with Czastka—a year ahead of King, Urashima, and Kwiatek. He’s in the field, working on some kind of biodiversity project; he hasn’t checked in with his base for a week. Not particularly unusual, they say, but…” “If he’s dead too,” Lowenthal opined, “Wollongong has got to be the crucial link.” “If he’s dead,” Charlotte echoed. “There are other links binding King to Urashima and to Kwiatek. If it’s just the three of them, the motive might have arisen a lot later than 2322. Let’s face it, no one but a madman would formulate a murder plan that would take so long to come to fruition. If you have a powerful desire to kill someone, you don’t wait a hundred and seventy years, until they’re practically at death’s door, before you implement it.” “Czastka called in his report on the first murder weapon,” Hal put in. “It confirms Wilde’s in every respect but one.” “Which one?” Charlotte wanted to know.

“He can’t see any evidence of a link to Rappaccini.” “That fault is in Walter’s sight, not in the evidence,” Wilde was quick to say.

“Even so,” said Hal, “the only name mentioned in Czastka’s report is Wilde’s—because he’s the only one known to have worked with the basic Celosia gentemplate. Czastka’s still on standby. I’ll send him the data on Urashima’s killer—and Kwiatek’s when we have it.” “Did you ask him about being at Wollongong with King and Urashima?” Charlotte wanted to know.

“Of course I did. He says that he doesn’t remember anything about events that long ago. He supposes that he must have known King, given that some of their courses overlapped, but he has no memory of ever having met Michi Urashima.” “He would say that, wouldn’t he?” murmured Michael Lowenthal.

“Got to go,” said Hal, breaking the connection.

Oscar Wilde immediately began tapping out a phone number on the comcon set in the back of Lowenthal’s seat.

“Who are you calling?” Charlotte demanded.

“Walter Czastka, of course,” Oscar replied with his customary equanimity.

“You can’t do that!” Lowenthal exclaimed. Charlotte was glad that he’d beaten her to it, because she knew exactly what Wilde’s reply would be.

“Of course I can,” said Wilde. “We’re old acquaintances, after all. If he’s involved with this business, I’m the best person to find out how and why—I know his little ways.” By the time he had finished speaking, it was a dead issue. The call had gone through and had been answered.

Charlotte could see the image on Wilde’s screen even though she was invisible to the camera that was relaying Wilde’s image to Czastka. She knew immediately that the face must be that of the flesh-and-blood Czastka, not his dutiful sloth. No one would ever have programmed so much wizened world-weariness into a simulacrum.

“Hello, Walter,” said Wilde.

Czastka peered at the caller without the least flicker of recognition. He looked very old—far older than King or Urashima—and distinctly unwell. His skin was discolored and taut about the facial muscles. Charlotte could not imagine that he had ever been a handsome man, and he had obviously decided that it was unnecessary to compromise with the expectations of others by having his face touched up by cosmetic engineers. In a world where almost everyone was good-looking, unmarked by the worst ravages of time and circumstance, Walter Czastka was an obvious anomaly. There was nothing actually ugly or monstrous about him, however. To Charlotte, he simply seemed ancient and depressed. His eyes were a curious faded yellow color, and his stare had a rather disconcerting quality.

“Yes?” he said.

“Don’t you know me, Walter?” asked Wilde, in genuine surprise.

For a moment, Czastka simply looked exasperated, but then his stare changed as enlightenment dawned.

“Oscar Wilde!” he said, his tone redolent with awe. “My God, you look well. I didn’t look like that after my second rejuvenation… but you already had… how could you need a third so soon?” Oddly enough, Oscar Wilde did not swell with pride in reaction to this display of naked envy. It seemed to Charlotte that Wilde’s anxiety about Czastka’s condition outweighed his pride in his own. This surprised her a little, and she wondered what motives Wilde might have for feigning such a response.

“Need,” Wilde murmured, “is a relative thing. I’m sorry, Walter—I didn’t mean to startle you. In my mind’s eye, you see, I always look like this.” “You’ll have to be brief, Oscar,” said Czastka curtly. “I’m expecting the UN police to call back—ever since they got past my AI defenses they’ve been relentless. Someone’s using flowers to murder people. I’ve given them one report, but they want more. People like that always want more. I should have known better than to respond to the first call, I suppose. Terrible nuisance.” Charlotte noticed that Czastka had dutifully avoided mentioning to Oscar Wilde the fact that he’d been obliged to mention Wilde’s name in his report on the lethal flowers. Czastka did not seem to relish the idea of a long conversation with his old acquaintance.

“The police can break in on us if they want to, Walter,” said Oscar gently.

“They showed the Celosia gentemplate to me too. I came to one conclusion that you apparently failed to reach.” “And what was that?” Czastka asked sharply. Charlotte knew that Hal Watson wouldn’t want Wilde putting ideas into Czastka’s head, but she was powerless to prevent it.

“It seemed obvious to me that Rappaccini had designed them,” said Oscar. “Do you remember Rappaccini?” “Of course I remember him,” snapped Czastka. “I’m not senile, you know.

Specialized in funeral wreaths—a silly affectation, I always thought. Haven’t heard of him in years, though—I thought he’d retired on the proceeds. I daresay you know him much better than I do. You were birds of a feather, I always thought. It was your Celosia, wasn’t it? What makes you think that Rappaccini had anything to do with it?” Charlotte didn’t need to make a mental note of the fact that Czastka considered Wilde and Rappaccini to be birds of a feather.