“With all the side effects? Including…longevity?”
“Well, that’s one of the things we don’t know. This is all very rough yet. But before we go any further, we need a lawyer.”
The sentence centered Leisha. Something was not right here. She found it. “Why are you here alone, Dr. Walcott? Surely any legal situation connected with this research is the responsibility of Samplice, and surely the firm has its own counsel.”
“Director Lee doesn’t know I’m here. I’m acting on my own. I need a lawyer in a personal capacity.”
Leisha picked up a paper magnet—that must have been what her fingers had been searching for, yes, why not—turned it on, turned it off, stroked it with her fingers. The transluced window glowed behind Walcott’s head. “Go on.”
“When I first realized where this line of research was heading, my assistant and I took it off-line. Completely. We kept no records in the company datanet, ran no simulations on anything except free-standing computers, wiped all programs each night, and took hard-copies—the only copies—of all progress home with us each night in portable safes, in duplicate. We told no one what we were doing, not even the director.”
“Why did you do that, Doctor?”
“Because Samplice is a public company, and 62 percent of the stock is divided between two mutual funds controlled by Sleepless.”
When he turned his head, the pale milky eyes seemed to absorb light.
“One of the mutual funds is offered by Canniston Fidelity; the other is traded from Sanctuary. Forgive me, Ms. Camden, for being so blunt, and even more for the reasoning behind the bluntness. But Director Lee is not a particularly admirable man. He has been indicted before—although not convicted—of misuse of funds. My assistant and I were afraid that if he was approached by anyone from Sanctuary to discontinue the research…or anything…in the beginning my assistant and I had only a glimmer. A wild enough glimmer that we weren’t sure we could interest any other reputable research company. To tell the truth, we’re still not. It’s still just theory. And Sanctuary could have offered so very much money to just cut the whole thing off…”
Leisha was careful to not answer.
“Well. Two months ago, something odd happened. We knew, of course, that the Samplice net probably wasn’t secure—what net is, realistically? That’s why we weren’t on it. But Timmy and I—Timmy is my assistant, Dr. Timothy Herlinger—didn’t realize that people scanned the nets not only for what was on it, but for what wasn’t. Apparently they do. Somebody outside the company must have been routinely matching lists of employees with net files, because Timmy and I came into our lab one morning and there was a message on our terminaclass="underline" ‘What the hell have you two guys been working on for two months?’ ”
Leisha said, “How do you know the message was from outside the company and not a snide hint of discovery from your director?”
“Because our director couldn’t discover a boil on his ass,” Walcott said, surprising her again. “Although that’s not the real reason. The message was signed ‘stockholder.’ But what really scared us, Timmy and me, was that it was on a free-standing computer. No telelinks of any kind. Not even electricity. It’s an IBM-Y, running directly off Y-energy cones. And the lab was locked.”
Something prickled in Leisha’s stomach. “Other keys?”
“Only Director Lee. Who was at a conference in Barbados.”
“He gave his key to someone. Or a duplicate of it. Or lost it. Or Dr. Herlinger did.”
Walcott shrugged. “Not Timmy. But let me go on with my story. We ignored the message. But we decided to put the work we had—by this time we were almost there—somewhere safe. So we destroyed all but a single copy, rented a safe-deposit box in the downtown branch of the First National Bank, and took just one key. At night we buried the key in my back yard, under a rose bush. An Endicott Perfection—triple roses blooming consecutively throughout your spring and fall garden.”
Leisha looked at Walcott as if he had lost his mind. He smiled faintly. “Didn’t you read pirate books as a child, Ms. Camden?”
“I never read much fiction.”
“Well. I suppose it sounds melodramatic, but we couldn’t think what else to do.” He ran his left hand again through the thinning hair, which had begun to look like tangled fringe. All at once his voice lost its confident strength, turning wispy and tired. “The key is still there, under the rose bush. I dug it up this morning. But the research papers are gone from the safe-deposit box. It’s empty.”
Leisha got up and walked to the window. Unthinking, she cleared the glass. Blood-red light low over Lake Michigan stained the water. In the east a crescent moon rode high.
“When did you discover this theft?”
“This morning. I dug up the key to go get the papers so Timmy and I could add something, and then we went to the bank. I told the bank officials the box was empty. They said there was nothing registered as in it. I told them I had personally put nine sheets of paper into the box.”
“You verified that on-line at the time of rental.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Did you get a hard-copy receipt?”
“Yes.” He passed it to her. Leisha examined it. “But then when the bank manager called up the electronic record, it showed that Dr. Adam Walcott had come back the next day and removed all the papers, and that Dr. Adam Walcott had signed a receipt to that effect. And Ms. Camden—they had that receipt.”
“With your signature.”
“Yes. But I never signed it! It’s a forgery!”
“No, it’ll be your handwriting,” Leisha said. “How many documents a month do you sign at Samplice, Doctor?”
“Dozens, I suppose.”
“Supplies requests, fund disbursements, routing slips. Do you read them all?”
“No, but—”
“Have any secretaries left recently?”
“Why…I suppose so. Director Lee has great trouble keeping support staff.” The wispy brows rushed together. “But the director had no idea what we were working on!”
“No, I’m sure he didn’t.” Leisha put both hands across her stomach. Long ago clients had stopped making her queasy. Any lawyer who practiced for twenty years got used to misfits, criminals, manipulators, heroes, charlatans, nut cases, victims, and shitballs. You put your belief in the law, not in the client.
But no lawyer had ever before had a client who could turn Sleepers into Sleepless.
She willed the queasiness away. “Go on, Doctor.”
“It’s not that anyone could duplicate our work,” Walcott said, still in that faint, die-away voice. “For one thing, we didn’t get to put on the last, very critical equations, which Timmy and I are still working out. But all of the work is ours, and we want it back. Timmy gave up several chamber-music rehearsals to our efforts. And, of course, there will be medical prizes someday.”
Leisha gazed at Walcott’s face. An alteration in body chemistry that could transform the human race, and this wispy man seemed to see it primarily in terms of rose bushes, pirate games, prizes, and chamber music. She said, “You wanted a lawyer to tell you where you stood legally. Personally.”
“Yes. And to represent Timmy and me against the bank, or Samplice, if it comes to that.” Suddenly he looked at her with that disconcerting directness that he seemed able to summon but not maintain. “We came to you because you’re a Sleepless. And because you’re Leisha Camden. Everyone knows you don’t believe in separating the human race into two so-called species, and of course our work would end that sort of…this sort of…” He waved the tabloid picture of her and Calvin Hawke. “And, of course, theft is theft, even within a company.”