“Felix, I must insist.”
“Are you sure it’s time?”
“My internal clock is 99.99999763% accurate. I am off by approximately one second every century. This means it is most assuredly three p.m.”
“I’m sorry, Mentor. I didn’t mean to doubt you.”
“There is no need to apologize. But please hurry to the Health Cell. If you fail to activate its program as required, I will be forced to notify the Health Authorities.”
“Fine,” Felix relented. “Let’s get this over and done with.”
With a sigh, he left the couch. Part of him was tempted to break the rules and be late for his “appointment.” So what if the authorities hauled him off? Would incarceration be so terrible, now that his father … his father …
He winced. It pained him to consider that their lessons together, their exchanges in the garden, their jokes in Latin that no else could grasp, were hopelessly shattered and would never return.
“It is one minute to three.”
“Stop pestering me, Mentor. I’m almost there.”
“I am safeguarding your welfare, Felix. Your mother would be angry if you were arrested through my negligence.”
“There. I’m in the Health Cell. You can activate the scan.”
As the panel on the Health Cell closed, and its ion shower started to glow, Felix wondered when he’d hear from his mother. Because the president had cancelled all off-world flights, Mrs. Taylor was on Ganymede still. The interference, too, had been bad in recent days and communicating with her was out of the question. After learning of his father’s death, Felix had been able to send a short message, informing his mother of the horrible news. She had been able to answer, but her transmission had been brief: “Felix, be brave. Your father was so proud of you. I’ll be home as soon as the travel ban is lifted. Try to endure. I love you very —”
Every time Felix replayed this message, he tried to catch his mother’s tears — on the hologram they resembled beads of liquid glass.
“I’m pleased to inform you that your Health Cell scan is negative. You bear no trace of the virus.”
“Can I come out now?”
“Yes. Your next test is scheduled for nine p.m. I will of course inform you in advance of this appointment.”
“I’m sure you will.”
“Do I detect a note of sarcasm, Felix?”
“No. You detect loneliness, worry, and sadness, Mentor.”
Besides Mentor, Felix had no one to talk to. There were his relatives — in Ireland, Israel and Malaysia — but they weren’t answering his holograms, a sign they too had been afflicted with the plague. He had no friends because of his strange interests, but even if they had existed, the chances were they would have fallen ill. The plague was sparing no one, and it was only a matter of time before it hit him, too.
Felix started pacing. As he shuffled from his bedroom to the central hall, he passed the door to his father’s study. Normally he would have closed his eyes — he hadn’t dared enter this room since his dad’s disappearance — but a peculiar odor brought him to a stop. It was a strange smell, sharp, but not unpleasant. Where was it coming from? After hesitating briefly, Felix crossed the threshold.
Things were as his father had left them, the books, the pens and paper (who else wrote with a pen?), the Latin dictionary, the magnifying glass, the leather-bound armchair, the old Roman coins. And … oh. A glass of wine was resting on his desk. Was this the source of that penetrating odour?
Felix drew closer. He ran his hand along the desk’s smooth surface and installed himself in its throne-like chair. The room was thick with his father’s presence and Felix half expected him to walk in at that moment. Being careful not to disturb anything, he leaned forward and sniffed the contents of the glass.
It was the source of the smell. Over time, the wine had turned to vinegar, hence the sour, pungent aroma. Felix smiled. “Vinegary,” Aceticus, was the author of the book that his father had been reading …
His smile faded. He recalled his father’s statement, how the book had something to say about the plague. “It’s all in there,” he’d murmured, motioning to the tome. At the time Felix had been too scared to pay attention, but he wondered now what his father had meant. He exited the study with a purposeful step.
“Would you like a game of chess?”
“Not now, Mentor. I’m looking for a book.”
“What book would that be?”
“Aceticus’s Historiae. It’s thin and bound in dark blue leather.”
“It is on the table next to the entrance.”
“Thank you, Mentor. That’s very helpful.”
Felix ran to the front door and, yes, the book was there. Caressing it, he remembered with a pang how he’d seen it last in his father’s hands. He opened it slowly to a page with a bookmark — the paper was yellow and dusty with age.
A paragraph jumped out at him.
The book almost slipped from his fingers. Stumbling to the couch on legs as weak as jelly, he fumbled with the book and read the passage over.
He shook his head in disbelief. Turning back three pages, he read their contents, too, studying every sentence with painstaking care. At one point he consulted a Latin lexicon, to check the exact meaning of a couple of words.
An hour passed. Mentor suggested that he eat something but Felix replied he wasn’t a bit hungry. An hour later Mentor spoke again, but Felix shrugged him off.
When the old clock in the dining room struck six, Felix put the book away. He’d read the Latin ten times over and still couldn’t believe the story it told. No wonder the text had absorbed his father. “Lupus ridens,” he murmured to himself.
He considered his options. The facts he’d discovered were of vital importance and had to be brought to someone’s attention but … how? It would take days to contact the Information Bureau, and even if he did get through, the auto-clerks weren’t programmed to forward his call.
But the information was crucial and he had to do something.
“You seem pensive,” Mentor stated, breaking in on his thoughts.
“I have a problem,” Felix answered. “I’ve found some information that the authorities should hear.”
“It will take four days and sixteen hours to reach the Information Bureau ….”
“Yes,” Felix snapped. “That’s why I’m debating what my next step should be.”
“On the other hand,” Mentor went on, ignoring Felix’s burst of temper, “you can inform the authorities by communicating with a talk-show host.”
“Like whom?” Felix asked, his interest piqued.
“Monitoring,” Mentor said, initiating a search of the broadcast network. “At present there are 17573 talk shows worldwide.”
“I need one with a wide viewing audience ….”
“The Angstrom Show has ten million viewers. It is running currently on channel 213. Shall I engage the Entertainment Complex?”
“My dad hated that machine,” Felix gulped.
“If your information is crucial, I am sure your father would understand.”
“All right,” Felix relented. “Please screen The Angstrom Show.”
No sooner had he reached this decision than a bright