He was not, of course. Nor was he, as so many had been led to suspect, a baron of the Demesne of Western Vermont, traveling incognito in his government’s service. In actual fact, Surplus and Darger were being kept afloat by an immense sea of credit while their plans matured.
“It seems almost a pity,” Surplus remarked conversationally over breakfast one morning, “that our little game must soon come to fruition.” He cut a slice of strawberry, laid it upon his plate, and began fastidiously dabbing it with golden dollops of Irish cream. “I could live like this forever.”
“Indeed. But our creditors could not.” Darger, who had already breakfasted on toast and black coffee, was slowly unwrapping a package that had been delivered just minutes before by courier. “Nor shall we require them to. It is my proud boast to have never departed a restaurant table without leaving a tip, nor a hotel by any means other than the front door.”
“I seem to recall that we left Buckingham by climbing out a window into the back gardens.”
“That was the queen’s palace, and quite a different matter. Anyway, it was on fire. Common law absolves us of any impoliteness under such circumstances.” From a lap brimming with brown paper and excelsior, Darger withdrew a gleaming chrome pistol. “Ah!”
Surplus set down his fork and said, “Aubrey, what are you doing with that grotesque mechanism?”
“Far from being a grotesque mechanism, as you put it, my dear friend, this device is an example of the brilliance of the Utopian artisans. The trigger has a built-in gene reader so that the gun could only be fired by its registered owner. Further, it was programmed so that, while still an implacable foe of robbers and other enemies of its master, it would refuse to shoot his family or friends, were he to accidentally point the gun their way and try to fire.”
“These are fine distinctions for a handgun to make.”
“Such weapons were artificially intelligent. Some of the best examples had brains almost the equal of yours or mine. Here. Examine it for yourself.”
Surplus held it up to his ear. “Is it humming?”
But Darger, who had merely a human sense of hearing, could detect nothing. So Surplus remained unsure. “Where did it come from?” he asked.
“It is a present,” Darger said. “From one Madame Mignonette d’Etranger. Doubtless she has read of our discovery in the papers, and wishes to learn more. To which end she has enclosed her card — it is bordered in black, indicating that she is a widow — annotated with the information that she will be at home this afternoon.”
“Then we shall have to make the good widow’s acquaintance. Courtesy requires nothing less.”
Chateau d’Etranger resembled nothing so much as one of Arcimboldo’s whimsical portraits of human faces constructed entirely of fruits or vegetables. It was a bioengineered viridian structure — self-cleansing, self-renewing, and even self-supporting, were one willing to accept a limited menu — such as had enjoyed a faddish popularity in the suburban Paris of an earlier decade. The columned facade was formed by a uniform line of oaks with fluted boles above plinthed and dadoed bases. The branches swept back to form a pleached roof of leafy green. Swags of vines decorated windows that were each the translucent petal of a flower delicately hinged with clamshell muscle to air the house in pleasant weather.
“Grotesque,” muttered Surplus, “and in the worst of taste.”
“Yet expensive,” Darger observed cheerily. “And in the final analysis, does not money trump good taste?”
Madame d’Etranger received them in the orangery. All the windows had been opened, so that a fresh breeze washed through the room. The scent of orange blossoms was intoxicating. The widow herself was dressed in black, her face entirely hidden behind a dark and fashionable cloud of hair, hat, and veils. Her clothes, notwithstanding their somber purpose, were of silk, and did little to disguise the loveliness of her slim and perfect form. “Gentlemen,” she said. “It is kind of you to meet me on such short notice.”
Darger rushed forward to seize her black-gloved hands. “Madame, the pleasure is entirely ours. To meet such an elegant and beautiful woman, even under what appear to be tragic circumstances, is a rare privilege, and one I shall cherish always.”
Madame d’Etranger tilted her head in a way that might indicate pleasure.
“Indeed,” Surplus said coldly. Darger shot him a quick look.
“Tell me,” Madame d’Etranger said. “Have you truly located the Eiffel Tower?”
“Yes, madame, we have,” Darger said.
“After all these years…” she marveled. “However did you find it?”
“First, I must touch lightly upon its history. You know, of course, that it was built early in the Utopian era, and dismantled at its very end, when rogue intelligences attempted to reach out from the virtual realm to seize control of the human world, and humanity fought back in every way it could manage. There were many desperate actions fought in those mad years, and none more desperate than here in Paris, where demons seized control of the Tower and used it to broadcast madness throughout the city. Men fought each other in the streets. Armed forces, sent in to restore order, were reprogrammed and turned against their own commanders. Thousands died before the Tower was at last dismantled.
“I remind you of this, so that you may imagine the determination of the survivors to ensure that the Eiffel Tower would never be raised again. Today, we think only of the seven thousand three hundred tons of puddled iron of its superstructure, and of how much it would be worth on the open market. Then, it was seen as a monster, to be buried where it could never be found and resurrected.”
“As indeed, for all this time, it has not. Yet now, you tell me, you have found it. How?”
“By seeking for it where it would be most difficult to excavate. By asking ourselves where such a salvage operation would be most disruptive to contemporary Paris.” He nodded to Surplus, who removed a rolled map from his valise. “Have you a table?”
Madame d’Etranger clapped her hands sharply twice. From the ferny undergrowth to one end of the orangery, an enormous tortoise patiently footed forward. The top of his shell was as high as Darger’s waist, and flat.
Wordlessly, Surplus unrolled the map. It showed Paris and environs.
“And the answer?” Darger swept a hand over the meandering blue river bisecting Paris. “It is buried beneath the Seine!”
For a long moment, the lady was still. Then, “My husband will want to speak with you.”
With a rustle of silks, she left the room.
As soon as she was gone, Darger turned on his friend and harshly whispered, “Damn you, Surplus, your sullen and uncooperative attitude is queering the pitch! Have you forgotten to how behave in front of a lady?”
“She is no lady,” Surplus said stiffly. “She is a genetically modified cat. I can smell it.”
“A cat! Surely not.”
“Trust me on this one. The ears you cannot see are pointed. The eyes she takes such care to hide are a cat’s eyes. Doubtless the fingers within those gloves have retractable claws. She is a cat, and thus untrustworthy and treacherous.”
Madame d’Etranger returned. She was followed by two apes who carried a thin, ancient man in a chair between them. Their eyes were dull; they were little better than automata. After them came a Dedicated Doctor, eyes bright, who of course watched his charge with obsessive care. The widow gestured toward her husband. “C’est Monsieur.”
“Monsieur d’Etrang —” Darger began.
“Monsieur only. It’s quicker,” the ancient said curtly. “My widow has told me about your proposition.”
Darger bowed. “May I ask, sir, how long you have?”
“Twenty-three months, seven days, and an indeterminable number of hours,” the Dedicated Doctor said. “Medicine remains, alas, an inexact science.”