Architects of Emortality by Brian Stableford Page A

endless process of repair would be creatures less human than the cleverest silvers: caricaturish automata. The only respect in which I have been forced to alter my opinion is that I feared such travesties would actually be able to think of themselves as human and even to believe themselves to be the same individuals who had been born into an earlier era. Mercifully, the workings of the Miller effect have spared us that. And now, at last, the old folly is over and done with. Now, we have a New Human Race, as artfully created as the best products of my own industry.” “I wish that you could be one of them,” said Michael Lowenthal politely as the elevator car came to a halt and the door slid open again to reveal the modified gloom of the Trebizond Tower’s subterranean garage, “since you wish it so fervently.” “Thank you,” said Oscar Wilde. “I hope that I shall never grow used to the cruelties of fate—and I hope that you, dear Charlotte, will preserve your own resentments as jealously. It will help you to be a better policeman.” Charlotte nearly fell into the trap of declaring that she had no such resentments and that she was perfectly content with the decision her eight parents had made to produce and foster a child of their own kind, but she strangled the impulse. Time was passing, and there was work to be done.

    “My car’s over there,” she said, extending a finger to indicate to Wilde the direction he should take. “Will you follow us, Mr. Lowenthal?” “I’d rather travel with you, if you don’t mind,” Lowenthal said. “My superiors sent me out in person so that I could keep my finger on the pulse of the investigation, so to speak. There’s no purpose in my actually being here if I have to keep in touch with you by phone.” “Suit yourself,” said Charlotte shortly. “But I’d be obliged if you could both keep it in mind that this is an investigation, not a dinner party. We’re not here to talk about the relative merits of internal technology and Zaman engineering. We’re here to figure out who killed Gabriel King—preferably before the news tapes get hold of the grisly details of his demise.” “Of course,” said Lowenthal. “With luck, the DNA samples collected by Lieutenant Chai will lead us to the murderer—and then we shall only be required to figure out why.” He said it in a vaguely admonitory manner—as if he were suggesting that the relative merits of internal nanotech and engineered emortality might perhaps be the crux of the matter.

    For the moment, Charlotte could only wonder whether, perhaps, they might.

    Charlotte opened the doors of her car and climbed into the seat which offered primary access to the driver, leaving Wilde and Lowenthal to decide for themselves which seats they would take. As if to emphasize their newly cemented alliance, they both got into the rear of the vehicle, leaving the other front seat vacant.

    Having keyed in their destination, Charlotte left the silver to plan and navigate a route. She turned to face her passengers, but she was too late to take control. Oscar Wilde had already begun talking again.

    “I fear,” he said, addressing himself to Lowenthal, “that it might not be possible to get to the bottom of this affair before the newsmen unleash their electronic bloodhounds. If what I have so far seen is a reliable guide, the puzzle must have been carefully designed so as not to unravel in a hurry.” Lowenthal nodded his head sagely. “It does seem—” “That’s all the more reason to concentrate our efforts on the facts we have,” Charlotte cut in rudely. “So will you please tell me what you meant, Dr. Wilde, about the supposedly obvious suggestion that the woman in the tape might be Rappaccini’s daughter.” “Ah,” said Wilde. “The thickening of the plot. May I tell you a story?” “If you must,” Charlotte said as evenly as she could contrive. It did not help her mood to observe that Michael Lowenthal seemed