Act Fourteen - Scene 8: Card Reader

‘It is impossible to tell the future. To read minds. How can that be? The girl looks so serious, but can that really be the cause? Mr. Dorland said that his daughter had endured things he could not imagine. Perhaps, as someone said, the mind can be forced into a state in which more of the brain is utilized than normal. It seems appropriate. Either she has senses and wit sharpened to the accuracy of the hearing a blind man develops, or something along those lines. Perhaps whatever ordeals she endured outside the domes brought her the heightened accuracy at deducing human thought, or perhaps she can, indeed, read minds. She and Dorothy seemed close after only the few hours I had been gone… but then three hours can be an eternity, at times. I certainly felt so to me.’

    Misses Peterson is dozing quietly as I return, so I make an effort to remain silent as I hang both my coat and jacket near Dorothy’s. I move carefully up the stairs, one eye on her sleeping form and the other on the closed door.

    I reach the top step… a shallow landing, and hear the two occupants of the room, one laughing softly and the other speaking in a light voice. Dorothy has never laughed… I turn the handle and open the door to find the two of them in much the same positions, but Hope is seated at her easel rather than standing.

    “It is customary to knock, Roger,” Dorothy says accusatorily.

    “Oh, don’t mind it, Dorothy, I’m sure he was only worried to hear us so happy-like.”

    I stammer some unintelligible response and Hope grins at me.

    “Take a seat, Negotiator, I just have to find something for Dorothy and then you may go.” I look over at Dorothy, who shrugs nonchalantly.

    This is more emotion than I have seen from the dour girl since her father was killed. Timothy Waynewright… did he grasp what torture he had done to his poor daughter? Or was it all about himself?

    “Roger, sit down,” Dorothy stands and motions to her chair.

    “Ah…” the noise of Hope’s voice echoes out from somewhere towards the back of the room, around a corner. I hadn’t noticed a corner. She follows shortly after her words, the quiet slap of her bare feet upon the wood floor the only noise indicating her movement. She walks over to Dorothy and hands her a small wooden box with six letters emblazoned on the lid and another single word carved into each side.

    ‘Psyche?’ ‘Tarot.’

    Dorothy takes the box with a polite murmur of, “Thank You, Miss Hope,” as the other girl regains her seat. For a long moment I look between the two of them, trying to reconcile the over serious young ladies I left here earlier with the quickly fading sight of easiness between them.

    “I didn’t mean to disturb you two, I really should have knocked,” I say in a mournful tone.

    “It’s all right, Roger, Norman is probably waiting on us at home.”

    I don’t think I’ve ever heard her say that. ‘At home,’ the words sound nice, good coming easily from her mouth. She holds the box securely against her chest with both hands wrapped firmly about it.

    I stand and she turns to Hope, “Good night, Miss Hope.”

    She smiles an indulgent smile and shakes her head a moment before standing and, with a simple movement of her foot, pushes the stool she had herself settled upon under the table directly behind her, picking up her paints in one fluid motion. And quickly, as I watch, the look of intense concentration returns. But unless I am mistaken, there is less displeasure to the expression, as though she has finally finds her work stimulating and worthwhile.

    We leave the room and I shut the door quietly behind us.

    “You two seemed to get along well.”

    “Hope is a nice person. I like her.”

    There it is again, she ‘likes’ someone. “Dorothy, what’s in the box? Tarot?”

    “The tarot cards that the figurines are based on,” she says slowly. “There is a test she wants me to do before I return.”

    “Return?”

    “She has to finish the portrait.”

    “I’m sure that she has more…” We get quietly into our jackets and head out of the main room, Misses Peterson still slumbering quietly on her desk. I open the door for Dorothy and she steps outside ahead of me.

    “Miss Hope said that she wanted to paint me, more than any of her other subjects, even though I am an android. She said that it would take a few days for her to complete it; but that she had another project she needed to finish. I am supposed to return on Tuesday.”

    “It seems you made a good impression on her,” I say with a pleased note to my voice.

    “Why not? Some people in the world aren’t louses.”

    I look over at her and start laughing.

    She doesn’t respond for a long moment, merely waiting for me to unseal the car, which I do so. She finally turns to look at me with that serious expression on her face again. “Roger, I have a question.”

    Composing myself I get into the car and settle behind the steering wheel. “What’s that?”

    “Is it wrong to want to help someone?”

    “Of course not. What brings this on?”

    “Even if it might cost you something dear to yourself?”

    “It depends on whether or not what they need help with is something you think is worthy.”

    She mulls that over and I start the car.

    “Do you ever do such things?” her voice is quiet, in the cabin of the car. The air hangs heavily between us. I mull that over as we round the familiar corner towards Big Ear’s hangout.

    “Sometimes I do.”

    “Is that why you turn down Paradigm?”

    “Part of it, yes. It depends on the morals of the situation, Dorothy. I don’t believe in the policies that Alex Rosewater employs to get his objectives completed, so I don’t help him. I don’t believe that the ends justify the means.”

    “And yet you’re willing to help Mr. Dorland salvage his relationship with Hope. What is the difference between the two? Both require strenuous efforts.”

    “Mister Dorland is not trying to reconcile with his daughter for profit. He truly wishes to be able to interact with his daughter as a father should.”

    “I don’t believe that is the case, Roger. And I do not think Mister Dorland cares much at all for Miss Hope.”

    For every one step forward I feel I am taking six steps backwards. But where am I headed? I pull up in front of the Speakeasy and stop the car. I don’t know if this is the sort of place Dorothy should be seen in… she is a lady, according to Norman, and the Speakeasy is… a low-rate bar. But worse things have happened, and I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to ask her at least.

    “Would you rather come in or remain here? It should only take me a few moments,” she looks at me with pleased eyes and says, “I will come inside, if you don’t mind.”

    “I don’t,” I say, unlocking the doors and climbing out. She climbs out as well and I seal the car again. Entering, she veers off and leans against the bar, coat tightly secured around her waist. I take my normal beer from the barkeep and take my seat in the back.

    “It’s kind of late for you to be out, isn’t it?”

    “Another tidbit of gentlemanly advice? Do I have a curfew?”

    “No, but obviously a smart mouth.”

    I pop the top of the beer and take a swig. It hits my throat and almost makes me cough. I haven’t had anything nastier than wine in a while. “What can you tell me about these statuettes, the twenty-one Tarot?”

    “How you got your hands in that finger trap I’ll never guess. The statuettes were brought into the city before the Incident, imported from one of the farther countries. Since then they bounced from owner to owner until Herbert Dorland bought them for his daughter.”

    “And the robbery?”

    “One of two things - either someone trying to get at Dorland, or another fanatic decided to try them out.” He folds his newspaper to look at the bottom half. “Supposedly when placed around the proper signifier, the statuettes reveal the future.”

    “Some big racketeer?”

    “No. Cataclysms, disasters… perhaps even the next wave of whatever hit that day you were shot.”

    “Thanks for the heads up on…”

    “Don’t mention it. I figure that if you died and I said something to you about it I wouldn’t loose much, and if you saved the city because of it then I wouldn’t loose either.”

    “I still feel a reward is in order.”

    “All right, then tell me what you’re doing with the lady at the bar.”

    “Doing with her?”

    “Isn’t she yours?”

    “No.” I take another sip. “But she came to me.”

    “Did you ever think that maybe she was yours?” Big Ear opens the paper to see the insides. “Seems awfully attached for some stray.”

    “Look if you mean that-” I catch her eyes on me as one of the men seated close to her strikes up a conversation. “She’s a free person.”

    “Something you should know about Herbert,” my ears prick at the tone in Ear’s voice. “He knows more about computers than anyone else at GenuTech.”

    “So that’s where he works.” I take another swig. The bottle is half empty. “So?”

    “He and his ‘wife’ were never really married. The two of them got together only about fifteen years ago.” Big Ear pauses to look over at the bar. “The child isn’t his, even though he adopted her unofficially.”

    “Any idea how they got together?”

    “The only thing anyone knows is that there was a project ‘Psyche’ that the two of them quit at the same time, taking the little girl with them. The woman ran away and was abducted seven years ago, leaving him with the girl to raise on his own.”

    “Any idea what happened to the mother?”

    “Turned up in a body bag a few weeks ago.” He turns the page in the newspaper with an air of finality. Either he will not speak on the matter any more, or he doesn’t know anything else about it.

    I stand and drop the customary fold of twenties on his table. “Thanks. Your warning put me out ahead of something.” Whatever it is.

    “Be careful with Rosewater’s secretary, Negotiator, she’s playing another side as well.”

    “Duly noted, I’ll see you again,” I leave the bottle on the table and head towards the bar where Dorothy is speaking dispassionately with a burly man with a stubble-covered face.

    “Is it time to leave all ready?” her voice is dripping with sarcasm.

    “Yes.” She nods to the man, who smiles wistfully, and then follows me out to the car.

    The Griffon sits there, encased in its armored plating, and the streetlamps turn on. I look up at them and Dorothy moves to her door. I press the button on the remote access pad and then open the door for her.

    As I am getting into the car she asks, “So today was productive?” she is still cradling the box in her grip, this time on her lap.

    “Yes. We met the daughter, I got to see the crime scene, but I’ve got research to do still.”

    “Do you need to figure out what ‘Psyche’ means, Roger?”

    I nod, pressing the gas pedal some to speed our return home. It’s almost seven as it is, and I think I should write down what I saw this afternoon. “Perhaps I can explain?”

    “How would you know?”

    “Miss Hope knew quite a bit about the subject, which she related to me during the third hour after you left.” So that is what they were doing.

    “Please do, Dorothy.” I don’t give her enough credit normally, but… that’s just how I am.

    The explanation takes the entire ride home. Roger seemed a bit dubious when I began, but he now seems to believe me. I don’t know if that’s because of the evidence or the fact that he’s trying to be nice to me, but for whichever reason, I am glad he believes me.

    We get out of the car in the dark garage and I stop, hearing the noises of the gears high above us.

    “Roger, let’s hurry inside. I’m cold.”

    He nods, closes up the car again and we head into the house. I lock the door behind us and lean against it. “Dorothy? Aren’t you coming?”

    I join him in the elevator, “So, Dorothy, what kept you?”

    “Roger can I ask you a favor?”

    His look deepens to one of contemplation and he watches my face evenly, “Certainly.”

    “May I try an experiment?”

***