Existence

world attention to a small scientific center in Cuba.

“No,” he answered, aloud. “I’ll watch the press conference cold. Bare-eyed.”

“And such big eyes they are,” spoke a voice from behind Hamish. “The better to see the future with.”

It was Roger Betsby, standing in the other doorway-bearded and a bit stooped, with a compact paunch at the middle and a tired expression on his somewhat puffy face. He stepped forward and placed a detector of his own upon the table. Clearly an older model. Still, it quickly spotted Wriggles. The little earring gave off a short ping, when Betsby’s device registered it.

In turn, Hamish’s detector cast a pale reddish glow upon Betsby’s narrow, rimless specs.

“These old things?” The physician-activist held them up. “Mostly just optical glass, with the barest augmentation-to record what I’m looking at and provide level-one captions. It was agreed that we could both keep e-notes.” He put the glasses back on.

“That’s all right. I don’t plan on saying or doing anything I’d be ashamed of. Thank you for coming, Doctor.”

“How could I refuse an invitation to meet the famous Hamish Brookeman? I would guess that’s half of your usefulness to the Eye. Celebrighties can walk through walls. Isn’t that the expression? You can gain audience with almost anybody on Earth. Kings, presidents, oligarchs, anyone who loved or hated your stories and films. Meanwhile, the merely rich and powerful often snub each other.”

Hamish shrugged. “There are drawbacks, too.”

“Of that I’m sure. Privacy. Time. Preciously short supplies of personal attention span. The usual complaints. Still, you must be tired, after haranguing those poor godmakers out there. Part of a lifelong campaign to steer our ponderous civilization away from cliffs. And now, that astronaut may have spoiled it all. Gerald Livingstone’s mysterious Havana Artifact is causing such a fuss. Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to put this meeting off? For another day? Another life?”

Hamish took a measured look at the other man. Betsby’s offer wasn’t courtesy. He was gauging the seriousness of the opposition. Whether the Movement would let itself get diverted by so minor a thing as possible contact with extraterrestrial intelligence.

“We both went to some trouble, in order to meet here today. Let’s proceed.” He sat, but only on the forward edge of a chair, with his long legs bent and elbows on the table.

“Very well, then.” Roger Betsby plopped down heavily, letting his own chair teeter back a bit. He spread his hands, inviting questions.

“What puzzles me-” Hamish began.

“You mean, what puzzles the Eye.”

Hamish blinked. The Movement didn’t care for that term getting bruited around, in public. Anyway, he disliked being interrupted. “If you prefer. What interests me-or us-is why you think you won’t face charges, since you admit to having poisoned Senator Strong.”

“I admit no such thing. Never have. At worst, what I did was administer a perfectly legal substance, on my own initiative as a medical practitioner, in order to palliate the condition of a disease victim.”

“A… victim…”

“Of an especially noxious illness.”

Hamish stared for a moment, till Betsby continued.

“Albeit, I administered the dose without his knowledge or consent. I suppose I could get in serious trouble for that.”

“Hm… so it wasn’t a poison, per se. Or a banned drug.”

“Far from it. The diametric opposite, you might say.”

Hamish pondered. None of the previous agents-attorneys and investigators who visited Betsby-had been told this twist. Now, the man was clearly enjoying this moment of truth, stretching it out. Hamish understood the feeling, having done it to millions, in books and on large or small screens.

“I see now why you act as if you have some basis to blackmail the Senator.” Hamish started enumerating on the fingers of one hand. “You admit that you doped Strong with a substance that triggered an offensively hysterical tirade in front of a nationwide audience. Normally, the fact that he’d been given a mind-altering drug might help temper the damage from his outburst, persuading many to pardon the repugnant things he blurted.”

“The Algebra of Forgiveness,” Betsby nodded. “Words can’t be unsaid. But a poisoning would provide powerful mitigation, perhaps drawing pardon from those who already liked him. Or those benefiting from his influence. That is, if it were a poison. Go on.”

“Um, right. You claim that the very name of the substance that you used might damage the senator even more than his upsetting words and actions. You threaten to reveal that information, if you are arrested, or if any other action is taken against you.”

“I never expressed it as a threat. That would be blackmail in the legal and felonious sense. I simply pointed out that, if I am charged with a crime, or harmed in any way, then naturally, more facts will emerge, than if I were simply left alone.”

“And now you claim that the stuff was legal, with legitimate therapeutic uses. Still, many substances have multiple effects, contingent upon-”

“Let me save you the trouble of going down that path. This one has only therapeutic uses. Few known side effects and only mild counter-indicator warnings.”

Hamish nodded. He had been afraid of this. “So, legally, you may only have committed the crime of treating a patient without his consent? But your threats…”

“As I said, I doubt you could make any blackmail charge stick. I’ve been careful with my wording. I have an excellent lawyer program.”

“Hm. Not as good as ours, I bet. Still, you imply that we… that Senator Strong might have reason to fear complete disclosure. Because the public might be less forgiving, upon finding out what concoction it was.”

“No flies on you,” Betsby commented.

“What?”

“Just something my gramps used to say. A compliment to an active mind. Go on Mr. Brookeman.”

Hamish frowned.

“You imply that Strong’s medical condition is one the public would despise even more than your act of slipping the senator a cryptic, behavior-altering substance.”

“Oh, I won’t get off, scot-free, if you people choose to reveal everything… or force me to. Some will call me a hero, but I could lose my medical license. Maybe get some jail time. Strong could sue me.

“But his political career would be kaput.”

Clearly, the fellow thought this a decent trade. And despite himself, Hamish felt drawn to Roger Betsby. If for nothing else, then the sheer gall and originality of his approach, and the way it had been formulated as a puzzle, as if for Hamish alone…

He ventured. “It would have to be a medical condition that’s both intrinsically repugnant and somehow voluntary. A lifestyle choice.”

Betsby nodded. “Go on.”

“And yet… something that’s relatively unknown to the public. Or, at least, under the popular vradar.”

“Gramps would’ve liked you.” A strange compliment that gave Hamish an involuntary flush… which also tipped him into realization.

“It’s an addiction, isn’t it? Senator Strong has a habit. A bad one. You… you slipped him an antidote! Oh Lord.”

The other man nodded, with a glint in his narrow eyes. “Bingo.”

Hamish allowed himself a thin smile. Even after just a few minutes together, he already valued respect from Roger Betsby, more than the cheap, reflexive praise of critics or fans. There weren’t more than a few dozen people on this poor planet he felt that way about. At one level, this was actually fun!

But that satisfaction took poor second, right now, to another feeling. Wrath! How he wanted to get his hands around a certain senator’s neck. None of the profiles or dossiers suggested addiction. Oh, some alcoholic stupors, now and then, and maybe a little neococaine, but no word of anything with its hooks sunk deep. Whatever filthy