I slapped the table. Maybe Timmerman hadn’t summoned her. Maybe she’d arrived spontaneously, with an urgent need to attach herself to Timmerman. Usually, I thought, free agent Beings didn’t belong to any particular human or cause, but I was hardly an expert. So I asked the computer if Tunnel Light had entered our world on her own. No.
I said out loud, “Well then, someone must have summoned her.” And then I laughed. Of course. It didn’t have to be Timmerman himself. It could have been one of the Tigers, maybe an enactment specialist. I typed in, “Who summoned Margaret Light-At-The-End-Of-The-Tunnel 23?”
The screen told me, “Carolyn Park-Wu.” I sat back and made a face. From all the reading I’d done, I was pretty sure I knew the names of all of Timmerman’s inner circle. Who was Carolyn Park-Wu? Some cousin or sister-in-law? I asked about her relationship to Timmerman. No reference. Great, I thought. Terrific. Someone with no relationship to Timmerman summons a Bright Being to act as his personal agent, for no particular purpose.
Feeling giddy, I asked what purpose Park-Wu stated when she registered the Summoning. The giddiness left immediately and I found myself shaking. “National Security Sanctification,” the screen read, and for the first time I realized that this was serious, this was not a game. The SDA was the organization which issued security sanctifications. And now they were slapping one on their own files?
Leaving the machine on—I didn’t want to take a chance on losing the contact—I went down to the hotel lobby and called Alison’s office. “This is Ellen Pierson,” I said in my best no-nonsense voice. “I need to speak to Ms Birkett, immediately.”
She came on right away, with a catch in her voice as she said, “Ellen? Hello. I’m glad you called.” Somewhere it struck me that she’d been afraid she wouldn’t hear from me, and I wondered what exactly that meant. But I had no time to think about it.
“Alison,” I said, “is this still a protected line?”
There was a pause, and then she said, “Yes. Registered with the government—”
“I don’t care about that. Do you know it’s safe?”
“I was about to say that it’s swept daily, by the best in the business.”
“Okay,” I said, “then I need you to check on a name for me.”
“Sure,” she told me. “Let me get a pen. Okay. Go ahead.”
“The name is Carolyn Park-Wu.”
In the brief silence, I felt like I could see her mind starting to click. She said, “I don’t need to check. I can tell you right now. Carolyn Park-Wu is a senior staff aide for Arthur Channing.”
The shaking was back. I said, “Senator Arthur Channing?”
“That’s right.”
“Head of the Senate Finance Committee?”
“Yes. Ellen, what have you found?”
To myself, I whispered, “Holy shit.” Out loud I only said, “Alison, we need to talk. Can we meet somewhere?” She suggested a hotel by Glowwood Sanctuary, the private park off 19th Street. When we hung up, I stood for a moment by the telephone, my hand still holding on to the receiver. Why did I do that, I thought. Why? I didn’t want to see her. I didn’t want to get involved in her damned schemes. This was serious. This was the SDA and now the Senate. I thought, maybe I should call her back.
Instead, I went up to the room and sat staring at the screen. Shut it down, I told myself. Get out, now. Instead, I typed another question. Alison has since said that this question marks what she calls my special talent. When I told her I had no idea what made me ask it, what, if anything, I was looking for, she just laughed and said that that was the point. The question was, “Has the Bright Being Margaret Light-At-The-End-Of-The-Tunnel 23 ever appeared in any other configurations?”
“National Security Sanctification” came the answer, and this time the shaking was uncontrollable.
3
Before going to see Alison, I washed my hair and changed to a pair of tight black jeans and an oversized white shirt I’d bought on sale the day before. Ridiculous, I told myself as I cut a small hole in the shirt, below the spare button, for the Living World to infuse the fabric. Why was I still trying to impress her? I didn’t even like her. It reminded me of when I was in high school and used to visit my Aunt Sylvia. I could never stand Sylvia, her big word condescension towards my mother, her pleated blouse and proper black pumps, her comments that I “really could look very nice” if I “just made a serious effort”. And yet, every time I went to see her I would try to show her, even if negatively, by wearing or saying something outrageous. It’s just like Aunt Sylvia, I told myself, putting on eyeliner and lipstick. Sure. Right.
When I arrived at the hotel bar, Alison was already there, sitting upright in a red leather chair by a small round table to the side of the polished bar. She smiled as she waved me over. She was wearing a dark blue blazer and skirt, a soft cream-coloured shirt with large black buttons and flat open-toed black sandals. She had a chunky silver bracelet on her right wrist and a plain watch with a black leather strap on the left. She’d clipped her hair back on the sides, showing off small web-like earrings set with clusters of tiny blue stones. Like me, she was wearing lipstick and subtle eye makeup (except my eyes were not so subtle). I don’t think I’d ever seen her looking so fem before. Or so pretty.
“I’m afraid you’re seeing me in my court incarnation,” she said. “I feel like some comic-book character. Trial Lady.”
“I hope you charmed the judge,” I said.
She took a sip of her drink. “I imagine I did. I won.” She looked up at me and grinned.
She was drinking whisky with ice, which is usually my drink when I want to get serious. When the waiter came, I ordered a pina colada, a drink I usually can’t stand. “How is your friend Harry?” Alison asked me.
“I haven’t seen him since the rally.” To myself, I thought I would be damned if I was going to make small talk with her.
“I liked him,” she said. “He seemed like someone who knows how to think.”
“I’ll tell him you said that.”
Finally the waiter came and set down my absurd frothy drink. I took a sip and made a face. For a moment I thought Alison was grinning at me, but when I looked she was leaning forward with her hands clasped. “You’ve been doing some digging,” she said.
I took a deep breath. “Timmerman is being set up. Margaret Tunnel Light—” She didn’t react to the condensed name. “—is a plant.” I paused, but she said nothing. So I told her about Consumer Liberation’s exploration of banking and the fact that MTL came from Park-Wu. “Obviously, there’s a lot that’s still unexplained, but I’m convinced that Great Brother Alex’s new Friend is not there to help him.”
“Are you saying she’s Malignant and not Benign?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t think so. If the SDA calls her Benign, I think we have to trust that designation. These were their own files, not for general publication.”
Alison sat up straight and closed her eyes. One finger pressed her lips, as if she was telling herself not to speak. I thought I knew what she was going to say and I was readying myself to tell her it was none of her business how I got my information. Instead, when she opened her eyes, she said, “She could just be a spy. A means of checking up on what Timmerman is doing. So Channing wouldn’t be made to look foolish by some sudden revelations.”