There was a low murmur of surprise. Lever looked about him, savoring the moment, then added, "Furthermore, let me add that I have donated this specially commissioned painting to the Institute in commemoration of this inauguration ceremony. If you would follow me. . ."
As Lever turned, the doors began slowly to ease back, revealing the facing wall-screen and Heydemeier's painting. There was a gasp of surprise and then, as more and more of the giant canvas came into view, a mounting tide of applause.
At the center of the painting the giant figure of a youth, his muscular chest naked, stood atop a mountain's rugged crest, looking toward the west, the shaft of a huge banner clasped firmly in one hand. His tautly sculpted and beautiful features glowed with a visionary fervor. Behind the youth and the wind-furled flag, a company of youths—young gods, they seemed—climbed toward the summit, their faces gleaming, looking toward the sun that bathed the whole picture in its glorious golden light.
"Gods . . ." one of the old men murmured, staring up at the huge canvas, his mouth agape. Nor was he alone. All about Lever the old men had fallen silent as the full scope of the massive painting came into view. There was a moment's hesitation, then, slowly, with a growing sense of awe, they began to approach the screen.
Old Man Lever stood there, looking about him, knowing what they were feeling at that moment. It was what he himself had felt only yesterday when he had first seen the painting. It was astonishing. Once more Heydemeier had taken his idea and transformed it. And now that he had seen it for himself, he knew. This was the Dream. This was what had driven him these past few years. This vision of perfection, glimpsed in the golden light of a new dawn.
He shivered. If it could be done, it would be done here. And this, this masterpiece of visionary painting, was the perfect statement of intent. To be a god and live forever—what was wrong with wanting that?
"It's astonishing," someone said close by, real awe in his voice.
"Youre right, Charles," another added softly. "It's a masterpiece. IVe never seen its like!"
He looked about him, smiling, accepting the words of praise that came from all sides. Then, raising his voice once more, he beckoned them on. "Come, gentlemen. Let's not stand here gawping. Let's go through. There are wonders enough within."
TWO HOURS later they were standing in the central lecture hall, beneath a massive reproduction of Martin Waldeseemuller's spectacular "Universalis Cosmographia," the ancient world map, dated 1507, which filled one whole end of the theater. The original woodcut, the first map to give the New World the name of America, hung in Old Man Lever's study in Philadelphia.
They had seen it all now, and had been impressed. There was no doubt that if a solution to the aging process could be found, it would be found here, for they had bought the finest state-of-the-art equipment and hired the very best men in every field. Expert after expert had met them as they'd toured the facility, giving a brief speech of explanation before they moved on, each one impressive in their own right, each building upon the general impression of competence. It looked good. Very good indeed. All that was needed was time and money . . . and a little luck. Or so Lever had claimed. Already the research had begun; each of the eight departments looking into their own highly specialized area. Everything had been thought out carefully beforehand, every base covered. Or so it seemed.
The tour completed, Lever went among the old men, talking with them, gauging their response, modestly accepting their praise. But all the while something nagged at him. It looked good. Indeed, it was good—the best money could buy. But it wasn't "the best." Nor would it be until he had Ward working for him.
He had looked about him as they toured the establishment, trying to see it all as they saw it, with fresh eyes, but all the time he was conscious that it was just a shell—a delightful piece of technological trickery, manned not by geniuses but by lesser men, schooled in old and rigid ways of thought. And he knew—because he had made it his business to know—that it all meant nothing—nothing at all— without that final tiny piece; that spark that would bring this great, magnificent engine of research to life.
It all came back to Ward. He had to have Ward. And if the man could not be bought, maybe he could be hassled into the job. Bullied and threatened and ultimately forced into taking on the task. Because, if his advisors were correct, there was no one else who could take on the task. No one brilliant enough to see through the obvious and come up with a wholly new solution to the problem.
Lever took another glass of whiskey and drained it at a shot. No, if Ward would not come willingly, he would come out of need: because there was nowhere else to go, no one else to turn to. And that would happen. He would make sure it would happen. Because the alternative . . .
Lever stood there, staring up at the ancient map, conscious suddenly of the billions of men and women who had lived and died since this chart had been drawn. Of all those countless souls gone to dust and nothingness. Then, drawing a long shuddering breath, he turned, smiling, and went among the crowd of old men once again, letting nothing of his unease show on the surface of his well-lined face.
michael was silent for some time after Kustow had gone, studying the papers Mary had set before him, then he turned in his chair, looking across at her.
When he had hired her, three weeks back, he had not been sure how things would work out. Her record, working in middle management for MemSys, the biggest of his Companies, had been good— first rate, in fact—but she had had little experience of working as a personal assistant. Nor would he have hired her had any of the four men he had wanted been available. But they were not. Whether his father had frightened them off or simply bought them out was irrelevant. He had been left with no choice. It was Mary Jennings or no one. And maybe he had only got her because his father had thought it beneath him to buy off a mere woman. But Mary had been better— far better—than either he or his father had anticipated. She was sharp, efficient, and resourceful. Moreover, she worked well under pressure—an invaluable trait at present, when the pressure was unrelenting. In many ways she was the best assistant he had ever worked with.
He sat back, lacing his fingers together. "Em . . . ?"
She looked up, startled. "I. . ." Then she saw the look of surprise on his face and looked away.
"Why did you call me that?"
"Call you what. . . ? Oh. Em, you mean?" He held up a copy of one of her reports. "It's how you sign yourself. The letter M. I guess IVe seen it so often now IVe come to think of you simply as Em."
She looked down, her mind still reeling. Of course. M for Mary. Mary Jennings. How strongly she had come to associate herself with that name these past twenty-one months; yet at the slightest reminder it had been dislodged, her real name brought back to her. Em for Emily. Emily Ascher . . .
She shivered, articulating it clearly in her head. Emily Ascher, late of City Europe and member of the Council of Five of the now defunct Ping Tiao—the infamous "Levelers"—who had brought chaos to the levels and then, foolishly, she thought, had fire-bombed Bremen stack, killing over eleven thousand innocent people. It was twenty-one months now since DeVore had given her false papers and bundled her off onto an inter-City rocket to a new life. Months in which she had maintained a low profile, keeping herself to herself, building up the solid foundations of her life, all the while waiting, biding her time.
For the time would come. And when it did ...
"You know, I think you're right."
She looked across; saw how he was watching her. "Pardon?"
He tapped the report. "About Dunn. I don't think we can trust him. He may have been my father's enemy for a long time now, but that doesn't necessarily make him my friend." He smiled. "I know how my father thinks. How he operates. He's a rich man, not averse to buying whatever he needs. And money can make a man—even a Dunn—take stranger bedfellows than his lifelong enemy, neh, Em?"