The woman walks briskly across the room, not looking back until she comes to - a door! An honest-to-god door that is rectangular, and has a knob, and EVERYTHING! Written on the door is the word "INTERVIEWS" in several languages. The woman opens the door, revealing a long, dingy white hallway which appears to disappear into the distance. Doors are placed at intervals on either side. Some distance down the hall two figures can be made out standing in front of one of the doors. Though distant, one can easily be identified as Leo by the brightly colored clown shoes.
Whipping up her clipboard once again, she barks out:
"William Levine, interview cubicle A!"The force of her words drives the travelers through the door, which shuts behind them.
"Marda Ordilescu, interview cubicle B!"
"Teddy, interview cubicle C!"
The nearest door has the letter "A" on it. Nearby are doors with "B" and "E". The lighting is all fluorescent, and flickers at the precise frequency that gives human beings an instant headache. It also hums at the frequency guaranteed to make one cranky, irritable, and slightly nauseous over time. But then, all fluorescent light does that ... doesn't it?
Upon hearing the room assignments, Marda begins chattering away incomprensibly to the bear for a few moments. She then kisses it on both cheeks, says "Mai rarut, mai dragut," and puts it down in the middle of the floor. After skipping halfway towards her appointed room, she looks back and apparently surprised that the toy hasn't gone anywhere, lets out a stern "Teddy!" Then after a few moments, she turns towards Levine, shakes her head with an indulgent smile and adds in English, "He can be so stubborn sometimes."
The little girl returns to the poor ragged bear by the hand and carried
it to room C, leaving the room with a "Fii cuminte!" She then trots
off to her own appointment with red tape and destiny in Room B, singing
some nameless tune of which no two notes share any relation to one another.
It may be that the room looks and smells and feels entirely too much like home.
"Hello young lady," the man says in the same sickly sweet tone of voice that grownups always used just before the injections or the probes or the shocks. A meaty hand rises fractionally off the desk and waves at the chair. "Please sit down."
Marda pulls out the chair, with the expenditure of a great deal of effort and a good deal of friction squeak noise. Instinctively, she sits in the chair after placing at least two feet of space between herself and the table (and the occupant beyond.) Even so, she finds her feet swinging back and forth under the chair attempting to contact the floor in order to push the chair further away. The chair, however, is much too high for that.
"Well, little Marda, " the man says in Romanian (but with a Polish accent, you notice), "you are certainly a long way from home here. And without your parents too. And for one so young to be on her own!" He *tsk,tsk*s a bit. "It seems a shame. Truly a shame."
He reaches into a desk and pulls out a bag. Holding it up, he shows that it contains brightly colored candies. He places it on the edge of the desk closest to Marda. "Please!" he says, beaming with mock-joviality (the kind adults always have when they want to appear nice) "Have some." He leans back in his chair and steples his hands in front of his nose. "Tell me little Marda - what brings you to Al Amarja?"
Despite the strange man's condescension and overall creepiness, the siren call of gratuitous sugar wins out and Marda jumps from the chair, swipes a handful in a rapid arm movement designed to secure as much candy without extending her personal space over the table, and returns to the chair. "Mmf, Wll," she begins with a mouth full of candy, "thm Dctor said I shm'ld broad'n my mf h'rizons and th'mt ths was's good m'f a plmace 's any."
"Ah," says the man, all sweetness and light, "and what doctor might that be? We need to know for our records, you understand."
"Doctor, uh," Marda pauses mid-thought. For the entire four years she has known him, he has been "Doctor" and she has been "Marda" and that's all there is to it. After a little bit of concentration, however, she eventually hits upon his real name. "Doctor Sigismund De, De, De, DeWeir. Yes that's it. Sigismund De Weir."
"Aaaah" says the man in genuine pleasure, the sort that adults usually exhibit only when they sit down or fart, "Dr. DeWeir! How interesting! Did Dr. DeWeir ever introduce you to his colleague, Dr. Neusbaum? He is a great man here on Al Amarja - he runs the hospital here!" The man scribbles rapidly on a piece of paper.
Marda brightens considerably at hearing of the news about her benefactor. "Dr. DeWeir's here? Wow!" She finds that the creepy old man quickly gets back to business, however, and finds herself fielding a new host of questions.
""No, little Marda, Dr. Weir is not here at the moment, though he visits the island frequently. I was refering to his friend, Dr. Nuesbaum, who runs the local hospital here. Perhaps you will meet him during your visit. Now then little Marda, where will you be staying while you are here on Al Amarja? How long do you plan to stay? What will you do while you are here?"
"I'm going to be staying at the Hotel at the Airport, for a while anyway. As for how long, I don't know yet. The Doctor never said how long it takes to broaden a horizon. As for what I'm going to do here, I suppose I'm going to see the sights and all that. The brochure's pretty."
The man takes Marda's passport and stamps it, making a grunty, sweaty sound that Marda normally associates with orderlies and nurses in the broom closet.
"There, little Marda, your passport is stamped. All is well," the man makes a gurgling sound - a chuckle? - "yes, little Marda, all is well. You may go back to the waiting room now. Someone will be along shortly to escort you to your hotel." The man hands the passport back, then stands, offering Marda the rest of the candy. "You can take this with you. Enjoy your stay on Al Amarja."
Marda hears the door open behind her. It opens onto the waiting
room, which is now empty, save for some puddles of water and a stack of
chairs.
William stops with his hand on the doorknob half in and half out of the room, for the interior of the room is mostly dark. Only a single chair, lit from above by a ceiling mounted spotlight, is visible, and the chair itself does not look particularly inviting. It is a crude, wooden affair, with heavy leather straps attached to the arms, back, and legs. He frowns a little at it and adjusts his glasses a bit, squinting to see if the chair is attached to the floor at all. The chair is most certainly and obviously bolted to the floor, so Levine takes only a couple of tentative steps into the room, then steps a bit further into the room and calls out, knowing, that if nobody hears his voice, they won't see his name on the sheet of paper. "Hello?" he says. He stands near the chair, but doesn't sit.
There is a quiet "click" as the door closes behind Levine. Like most doors in this place, it seems to disappear completely when it shuts. From his vantage point near the chair, Levine can just make out a desk on the other side of the room in the gloom. He steps across the room towards the desk, still calling out "Hello?"
There is nobody at the desk. There is, however, a piece of typewriter paper (the translucent, crinkly kind) neatly centered on the blotter. On it is the following message: "We know what you are. If you are also aware of what you are, you will sit in the chair. If we get impatient, your paperwork will be filed, and you will wait in this room until you starve. If you cooperate, you will be rewarded."
There is no signature.
Levine runs a hand through his hair. He takes off his coat (still soaking wet, if no longer actually dripping), and drapes it across the back of the chair, then lowers himself tiredly into it, like it was a Barca-Lounger in a plush apartment, and he were coming home at the end of a hard day, but his eyes look like an animal's eyes, searching, bright, hard with the manic intelligence of a compulsive schemer.
After a brief delay, the overhead light goes off, and an EXTREMELY bright spotlight come on shining directly into Levine's eyes from the front. While Levine is squinting, covering his eyes, and doing his best not to go permanently blind, he hears the sound of a door opening in front of him, heavy footsteps, and the someone large sitting in a chair behind the desk.
"Well," says a husky voice, thick with nicotine deposits, "at last we meet. I have worked for a long time to bring this about." There is smug satisfaction in the voice. "It is not easy to manipulate someone who leaves no trace." A chuckle that sounds like gravel rolling around in a lead-lined box. "But as you are sitting here, and so am I, it is apparent that it is not impossible either."
"In case you are having any undue concerns regarding the furniture in which you recline, let me assure you that it is no more than it appears. The straps do not spring out of their own accord to entangle, there are no hidden needles, and the item in question is not wired to give an electric shock on command. It is, in fact, exactly what it looks like - a simple and utilitarian device used to restrain human beings while others perform upon them activities which require such restraint." Another chuckle. "Such activities are not planned for you, this room was chosen entirely as an exercise. There are times when one must choose between one unpleasant alternative and another, as when you were forced to choose between the possibility of starvation, and the alternative of sitting in a chair designed for restraint. Perhaps you will bear this exercise in mind as our conversation continues."
Something cold and metallic touches the back of Levine's neck, causing him to start, but a strong hand grasps his shoulder and pushes him back into the chair before he can finish rising.
"The item you feel at the back of your neck, sir, is a handcrafted .19 caliber revolver designed to be used in competition shooting matches. It is a truly wonderful design, firing a small bullet at relatively low velocity, but its chief utility in this situation is the fact that the light bullet which it uses will penetrate the bones of the skull at close range, but be slowed enough by the impact that it will fail to exit out the other side, thus ricocheting about through the gray matter. I inform you of this so that you will comprehend your present situation fully. Should you attempt to rise from the chair in which you sit, my silent and deadly compatriot will not hesitate to operate said pistol to deprive you of your further existence."
The touch of the pistol disappears, but Levine has no doubt that it is still there.
"Now then," says the raspy voice, "obviously the amount of effort that has been put into assuring your arrival here must suggest to you that there is more to this conversation than simply a prelude to shooting you and dropping your body in Traboc harbor. In this you are quite correct. In point of fact, individuals whom I represent have a business proposition to offer you. Before I go into the details, however, allow me to ask if you have any questions?"
After a moment's silence, the voice continues. "Very well, Mr. Levine. Allow me to put forth my proposition to you. As a prologue, allow me to tell you I make no promised as to the veracity of anything I have told you thus far. The organization I represent is not interested in truth, Mr. Levine, but in POWER. Let me assure you that if you become a member of this organization, survive, and prosper, then power will be yours. For now, this is all you need to know.
"My business proposition to you, Mr. Levine, is a simple one. It is obvious and self-evident. It is also, and you have my promise on this, the one and only time that you will be able with certainty to see the strings, Mr. Levine. The proposition I place before you is exactly what it seems, and the choices are no more and no less than they appear to be.
"This is the proposition I offer you Mr. Levine - that you become an employee of the organization I represent. No more, no less. Should you accept this invitation, you will do it entirely on the strength of the information I have already offered you, balanced against the alternative.
"The alternative is that my associate put a small caliber slug into the back of your skull, and that we then dispose of you in Traboc harbor.
"I imagine that the alternative is not so pleasing as you would wish. I DID warn you that sometimes life is composed of choices between less than sterling outcomes." Again the gravelly chuckle. "However, rest assured that the choice IS legitimate. You will not in any way be compelled to join us. However, if you DO choose to join us, there is no leaving. Ever."
"Should you choose the alternative of the bullet, you have merely to turn your head, attempt to rise from the chair, or verbally decline my offer."
The voice falls silent, with only its wheezy breathing signifying that someone remains in front of Levine.
Levine smiles, seeming more confident and at ease again. Like he knows who he's dealing with. "Sure. Sounds great. Absolutely. I'm with you one hundred percent," he says genially. He wants to smirk, but he doesn't, not really.
The gravelly voice seems pleased. "Good. I would have been most distressed to learn that I had expended so much effort to my discredit.
A hand comes out of the darkness and begins patting Levine down, eventually extracting his passport from a jacket pocket. Meanwhile the voice continues. "Now that you have been officially employed, I am empowered to inform you of the perks and responsibilities of your new position. First...*WHEEZE* ...the perks. You have an office, starting two days from today, in the Swaps Building, number 1 Plaza of Gold, Golden Barrio. It is located on the fifth floor, has a window, and all the office equipment that you might need, save only a secretary. The sign on the front door reads 'Temporary', which we discovered is easier than actually putting your own name on the door. Second, a cellular telephone, which you will keep on your person at all times. Third, a pager, which you will likewise keep on your person at all times. Within your office, you may feel free to perform whatever investment schemes you so desire remembering only that *WHEEZE* one) nothing that requires you to fill out any paperwork will succeed, and two) that anything you do which brings the unwanted attention of major powers on the island will make you useless, and therefor expendable, to us. The most important aspect of this setup so far as we are concerned is that you have a location which is acceptable to us which we can access readily.
"From time to time, you will receive orders. You will carry them out efficiently and rapidly. You will find that, in general, no time limit will be given in your instructions. Rest assured that this is not because you will be given unimportant work. Think of it, rather, as incentive to work quickly and creatively upon all tasks which devolve to you." Another chuckle comes from beyond the light. "All tasks have a deadline, after all."
"Now then *WHEEZE* *COUGH* ahem! Now then you no doubt believe that failure will bring the possibility of my associate here visiting you some cold, dark night and putting a bullet in your skull. Allow me to assure you that such is not the case. You were offered that choice and rejected it. It will not easily be offered by us again."
There is a pause, as if the person behind the voice is gathering his thoughts. "Are you familiar with the paradox of Schroediger's cat, Mr. Levine? Place a cat in a box, and seal the lid. Now, flip a coin and catch it in your hand. Should the coin come up heads, the cat dies. Should it come up tails, the cat does not. As you hold the coin in your hand, before you look at it, is the cat alive, or is it dead? It is both, and neither. A paradox indeed!"
"When researching the nature of your unique abilities, I discovered that something like this paradox works to your advantage, Mr. Levine. You no doubt recall that your credit cards can be used up to their limit each and every month, and simply clear themselves at the end of that time. This is because certain of the paperwork dutifully disappears each month, and because your bank, fearful of a lawsuit brought about by overcharging, assumes that things work out in your favor. The reason that the credit cards continue to work at all is because your bank is cautious about closing out the accounts of gold card members without proper reason, and has instituted safeguards to prevent this from happening. In point of fact, virtually all of the proper paperwork normally kept on file for credit cards is, in fact, very likely to be missing in your case. But your cards keep working because the bank assumes that the paperwork is there, since you never could have gotten the card in the first place without it."
"What we have in your case, Mr. Levine, is Schroedinger's paperwork. So long as the bank does not look into the matter of your paperwork, your accounts will likely stay open. However, should your bank decide to investigate matters, one of two things will happen. Either they will discover that the cat is alive, that is, that your paperwork still exists, or they will discover that your paperwork is missing, and the cat has died. If the latter has occured, your credit cards (and your disposable income) will quickly disappear. But even if the former occurs, by the very act of examining your papers they will come to the attention of individuals who can, and will, misfile, misplace, or simply discard them accidentally, bringing about the same result overall."
"And that, Mr. Levine, is the hold we shall place on you initially. Fail to cooperate, and we will see to it that you are destitute. Cooperate, and you have nothing to fear *WHEEZE* in that regard at least."
The passport is slipped back into Levine's jacket. "I have so enjoyed this little chat, Mr. Levine, and I hope you have as well. Please remain seated until the light is extinguished. A key to your new office will be delivered by courier to your hotel room. Have a pleasent morning." Again the shuffling footsteps, and the sound of a door opening and closing. A moment later the blinding light goes out, and the overhead light comes back on. Levine finds himself alone in the room. With a certain amount of surprise, he finds that his rain-drenched clothes are now also soaked in cold sweat.
A door opens leading to the corridor outside.
Levine's eyes narrow as he listens - he's already making calculations,
weighing odds, possibilities, opportunities. When it's all over,
he rises quickly, shrugs on his jacket, and steps outside quickly, resolved
that if there is a way to screw that asthmatic bastard and make something
on it, that he'll do it in a flash. Nothing personal. Just
business.
To Be Continued...