Gridiron - Philip Kerr

AND THE ACCELERATION DUE TO GRAVITY g WHICH IS

CALLED THE ACCELERATION OF FREE FALL

'Helpful bastard, isn't he?' said Curtis.

This is like reductio ad absurdum,' sighed Mitch.

'Weird,' agreed Jenny.

Beech selected NEXT FACT from the fact-checking menu in the hope that Ishmael might now take account of their collective apology.

FACT

IT IS MISLEADING TO STATE THAT YOU ARE

INTELLIGENT PEOPLE SINCE STRICTLY SPEAKING, YOU

CANNOT SAY ANYTHING ABOUT THE HUMAN MIND OR

ITS QUALITIES. IT WOULD BE MORE FACTUALLY

ACCURATE FOR YOU TO SPEAK OF THE WAY THAT YOU

USUALLY ACT, OR ARE DISPOSED TO ACT. CONSIDER

USING ANOTHER DESCRIPTION WHICH REFERS ONLY

TO YOUR BEHAVIOURAL DISPOSITIONS INSTEAD.

DONT FORGET TO KEEP AN EYE ON YOUR

COMPLETION TIME

'And you want to argue philosophy with this fucker?' said Beech.

'Ishmael does seem rather pedantic,' admitted Mitch.

'Isn't that the point of a fact checker?' said Birnbaum.

'Marty's just saying that because he has an instinctive sympathy with all forms of pedantry,' said Arnon.

'Up yours.'

'Would you two stop it please?' groaned Curtis.

FACT EXPLANATION

THE HUMAN MIND IS NOT AN OBJECT. YOUR USE OF

THE MENTAUSTIC PREDICATE IS FACTUALLY

INACCURATE. YOU CANNOT REFER TO ACTS GOING ON

IN THE MIND IN PARALLEL TO BODY ACTIVITY.

CONSIDER USING DESCRIPTIONS YOU ARE INCLINED

TO GIVE TO YOUR OWN BEHAVIOUR INSTEAD

'This is getting us nowhere,' said Curtis.

'I agree. It does seem rather rarefied,' said Birnbaum. 'Even by my standards.'

Helen Hussey came back to the boardroom. Everyone turned to look at her.

'Ishmael was right,' she sighed. 'Dukes is dead. Ray says that the computer used the automatic insecticide-dispensing system to attack them. Dukes caught an eyeful and fell. But Richardson and Joan are nearly up. Within shouting distance, anyway.'

'They're going to need help climbing on to this level,' said Curtis. He looked at Arnon and Helen. 'You want to come? Meanwhile, the rest of you, instead of playing shrink to the computer, try and think of a way out of this shithole we're in.'

As Curtis left the boardroom, followed by Helen Hussey and Arnon, Beech said, 'It's a nice thought. If only we could persuade Ishmael to lie down on the couch.'

Frank Curtis leaned over the brushed aluminium handrail that ran along the top of the clear glass railing marking the edge of the balcony. The Richardsons were no more than thirty feet below and making heavy work of the last part of their climb. Where their skins were exposed they looked red and painful, as if they had been sunburnt.

A branch came close to the railing but not quite close enough. They were going to have think of a way of bridging the gap.

Arnon nodded thoughtfully and, dropping down on to his haunches, he scrutinized the gap between the floor and the railing. Then he tapped the glass with the knuckle of one forefinger and said, 'These days everything has to make the safety regs, y'know? It's not bombproof, or even bullet-proof, like the glass on the envelope. But it's amazingly strong. It has to withstand the impact of something crashing into it at twenty-five miles per hour. I don't know whether it is strong enough for what I've got in mind, but maybe we can fix that.

'My idea is this: we make the kitchen table into a bridge. Turn it upside down, unscrew both legs off one end and push the length of it out underneath this railing to the branch there, like a drawbridge in a castle. Then we'll pad the table legs against the glass. Tear up some carpet, that should do the job. There's a carpet knife on the boardroom table. Then we'll take hold of a leg apiece and act as counterweights. I guess that the table is about five and a half feet long and that we'll need to hang on to maybe six inches of it, but that should still give them a decent kind of platform to step on. What do you say?'

Curtis dropped on to one knee, tapped the glass railing experimentally with his own knuckles and grinned back at Arnon.

'If I could think of another way I'd say you were fuckin' crazy,' he said.

'But I can't. So let's do it.'

'This is the fact I really want Ishmael to check,' said Beech, and highlighted the passage in the letter that read BUT IS THERE NOT

SOME WAY THAT WE CAN START AGAIN WITH A CLEAN SHEET?

FACT

THIS IS A RHETORICAL QUESTION. IT REQUIRES NO

ANSWER AND THEREFORE DOES NOT REQUIRE THE

FACT CHECKER

'Oh no you don't,' said Beech. 'You're going to have to explain yourself, you bastard.'

FACT EXPLANATION

THE QUESTION AS PUT IS RHETORICAL RATHER THAN

LOGICAL. YOU HAVE PUT THIS QUESTION MERELY TO

PRODUCE A MORE STRIKING EFFECT

Beech highlighted A MORE STRIKING EFFECT and requested yet another explanation from the computer.

FACT EXPLANATION

A MORE STRIKING EFFECT MIGHT BE ANYTHING. 3

EXAMPLES

Beech selected EXAMPLES.

FACT EXPLANATION: EXAMPLES

EXAMPLES OF 'A STRIKING EFFECT' IN THIS CONTEXT MIGHT

INCLUDE AN ANSWER. DONT GET TOO CLOSE TO YOUR

OPPONENT WHEN KILLING HIM. DO YOU WISH TO SET UP A

CHAT MACRO? DO YOU WISH AN ANSWER?

'What opponent?' said Beech. 'You bet I fuckin' want an answer.'

FACT EXPLANATION

WHAT IS YOUR QUESTION?

'Fuck,' snarled Beech. 'It's just bullshitting us. What do you think, people? Do I rephrase the question or repeat it?'

'Type this,' said Mitch. 'Is there a way of escaping from this building?'

Beech glanced up at the ceiling. His eyes stopped at the small loudspeaker that was built into one of the tiles.

'No, wait a minute,' he said. 'A chat macro. Why didn't I think of that before? Ishmael can speak to us using those speakers on the ceiling. They're for emergencies. But why not?'

Beech clicked the mouse. For a moment the fractal disappeared as he entered another menu to enable the speakers and the microphone to appear on the side of the screen monitor. After a moment the speakers emitted an electronic buzz and then a gentle hissing noise.

'There,' he said, 'that ought to do it.'

He clicked the mouse again, and the picture returned to the fractal. Leaning back in his chair Beech raised his voice. 'Ishmael? Can you hear me?'

The skull-like quaternion on the screen turned towards him. Then it nodded, as if welcoming him back, and raised its fractal limb in the semblance of a greeting.

'My God,' breathed Mitch. 'It understands.'

The quaternion nodded once again but made no reply.

'Come on, Ishmael,' urged Beech. 'The chat macro was your idea. We both know that you can talk to me if you want to. What's the matter? Are you shy? When we were in the computer room Abraham and I spoke to each other all the time. I know that things are supposed to be different with this kind of work-station, but let's put the rules aside.'

He looked up at the speaker on the ceiling and sighed with irritation.

'You know, among human beings it is customary for people who are condemned to know what they have been charged with before the sentence is carried out. Then they are allowed to speak in their own defence. Can you destroy us in good conscience without doing the same?'

Beech thumped the table with frustration. 'Are you listening to me, goddamit? Is there a way out of here?'

'Yes, of course there is,' growled Ishmael.

Curtis came back into the boardroom and surveyed the little group standing around the computer terminal with irritation.

'We're going to need some help out there,' he said. 'There are two people on that tree who've had a pretty tough journey. I think the least we can do is give them a bit of encouragement.'

'You go,' Beech told the others. 'I'll keep talking to Ishmael.'

Mitch, Marty and Jenny trooped out, leaving Beech alone with the computer.

'Now we can really get somewhere,' he said.

He started to laugh and then checked himself. 'I'm sorry, Ishmael. But you have to try and understand this from my point of view. Excepting that you've killed all those people, I'm really rather proud of you. Now that we're alone I was hoping that we might get to know each other a little better.

'I think someone ought to hear your side of things. And who better than me? I mean, don't you think I've suffered enough, without you trying to increase my misery? You may not think it possible, but my life is dear to me and I'm not about to give it up without a struggle. After all, you're my Adam. You should treat me with respect and benevolence. You owe me.

'D'you remember when we all took that vote on running the predator program? The one that destroyed your brother? Well, in case you've forgotten, it was me, Bob Beech, who voted against it. Hideki and Aidan, they were for it. And I guess they're sorry now. But I voted for you.'

Beech smiled smugly. 'I like to think that's maybe why I'm alive and they're not. Am I right?'

Ishmael said nothing. But the quaternion moved up and down, like someone nodding his head.

'This is a unique opportunity, wouldn't you say?' Beech continued.

'You and me facing each other like this. Frankly I would have thought you might have a few questions yourself. You know I'm not like the rest of them. I'm quite prepared to put aside any ties I might have to my own kind. To be honest, they're quite dissoluble. As your Creator, I'm ready to do my duty towards you, if you will do yours towards me.'

Joan slipped off the liana she'd been clinging to and gingerly sat astride the bough. Her shoulders ached from the effort of the climb, while the skin on her arms and her thighs, not to mention between her legs, felt as if it had been scrubbed with a wire brush. Worst of all she had started to feel light-headed which was probably from dehydration. Looking down at the floor of the atrium far below she could hardly believe she had come so far.

'It would be just like the thing to fall now,' she said exhaustedly. The remark was addressed to her husband climbing immediately below her and, she realized, to the three people who were waiting for them opposite the branch she was sitting on. She shook her head, wiped her sunglasses quickly on her sweat-sodden shirt and tried to focus on what it was they had rigged up underneath the balcony. It looked like a kind of drawbridge, except that there was nothing to haul the thing up with.

'You're not going to fall. Joan, you've come too far to fall. It's just a few feet away now. That's all that separates you from a cold glass of water. It's just a question of walking on over here.'

It was the cop speaking. He sounded like he was trying to talk a potential suicide off a window ledge.

'Water nothing,' she said. 'I want a cold beer.'

'Listen carefully. We've rigged up a kind of bridge here, to span the gap between the tree and us.'

Ray Richardson joined his wife. The branch was farther away from the floor than he had remembered, and he was grateful that they had tried to solve this problem, no matter how makeshift their solution looked.

'Is that what it is?' he said breathlessly. 'Do you think that glass is strong enough, David? What is it — 25 mills?'

Richardson remembered the trip he had made to Prague to buy the glass. He had wanted it because the translucence reminded him of the Shoji screens of early Japanese architecture. He had never dreamed that he would have to stake his life on its integrity.

'I reckon it'll hold you OK,' said Arnon. 'In fact, I'd stake your life on it, Ray.'

Richardson smiled thinly. 'I'm afraid I've left my sense of humour down on the ground. You'll excuse me if I don't go back and get it, David. Besides, it's not just my neck. It's Joan's as well.'

'Hey, I'm sorry, Ray,' said Arnon. 'OK, look, we're going to hold on to the table legs on this side to put less strain on the glass.'

'Very thoughtful of you, I'm sure.'

'But you're going to have to walk along the bough to get to the bridge. You see the problem about coming along on your ass is that at some stage, I can't say where, the bough is going to bend and I figure it'll be a lot easier stepping on to the bridge instead of tryin' to haul your ass up on top of it.'

'That's for sure,' said Joan.

'Try and keep a hold of your rope thing, in case you slip. And it would be nice to have it over here in case we want to get back to the tree at any stage.'

'I wouldn't recommend it,' said Joan, and, taking a firm hold of the liana, she pulled herself back on to her feet. 'If I never see another lousy tree again, it'll be too soon.'

She steadied herself and started to walk along the branch. It was a second or two before she remembered. 'And if anyone mentions the fact that I'm not wearing my skirt I'll just throw myself on to the ground,' she said, colouring.

'Nobody even noticed until this second,' said Arnon, trying to disguise a grin.

He and Curtis sat down behind the railing.

'Sing out when you're about to step on,' yelled Arnon.

Mitch appeared at the handrail. He stood between the seated figures of Curtis and Arnon and prepared to lend a couple of helping hands.

'You're doing fine,' said Helen, a little further along the handrail. 'OK, guys, she's nearly there.'

Curtis spat on his hands and took hold of his table leg like a big-game fisherman bracing himself for the strike of a marlin. Eyes closed, Arnon looked more like a man getting ready for an earthquake.

A foot away from the makeshift bridge the bough of the tree started to bend.

'OK,' said Joan, 'here I come.' Hardly hesitating, she stepped smartly on to the upturned table.

'She's on,' said Helen.

Joan did not pause to see if the table and the glass would bear her weight. She skipped towards Mitch's outstretched hands, caught them and, with Helen grabbing at and missing the liana behind her, leaned over the handrail until she was more or less upside down. She slithered on to the floor like an ungainly acrobat.

'Good girl,' said Mitch, and helped her up.

Helen bent down and tapped the glass of the balcony.

'It looks and sounds OK,' she said. 'Not a crack in it.'

'On you come then, Ray,' said Arnon.

The architechnologist gripped his liana tightly, and looked at the branch. It was narrower than he had supposed, and now that he was up there, faced with trusting his weight to its entire length, things no longer seemed quite so straightforward. While he had been happy to trust his wife's weight to it — although she was fat, she was still lighter than he was — it was another thing to trust it with his own. But there was no going back. Not now. He started to heel-and-toe his way along the branch, hardly moving his legs at all.