Laughing Wolf. Nicholas Maes
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 light appeared above the EC console and, like clay being shaped upon a potter’s wheel, assumed the form of two men sitting before a globe of the world. The blonde-haired giant in a Klytex suit was Siegfried Angstrom, the talk show’s host. On his right was Dr. Lee — or so a banner proclaimed — chief director of the Science Institute.
“Let’s cut to the chase,” Angstrom was saying. “When will we have a cure for the plague?”
“I really can’t say,” Dr. Lee replied.
“Not even a rough estimate? A week? Two weeks? A month? A year?”
“As I explained, we haven’t determined the virus’s structure. Until we do, we can’t replicate —”
The EC was starting to beep — Mentor was processing a request for connection. Felix started breathing hard. The thought suddenly struck him that, if he appeared on the show, millions would be watching. The idea made him nervous.
“… But we’re running out of time,” Angstrom said. “Half the population has been hit with the virus. They’re getting by on life support, but that won’t help if the plague keeps spreading.”
“I agree. The problem is that a cure continues to elude us.”
The pair kept talking. Angstrom kept hinting that the scientists were lazy, while the doctor kept repeating that his centre was doing the best it could. Every two minutes, Angstrom would let a caller speak. These people, too, were angry with the doctor and kept blaming the scientists for dragging their feet.
After watching the show for nearly an hour, Felix started thinking he was wasting his time. People were calling from all over the globe, and the chances of connection were maybe one in a million. But no sooner had this thought registered than the EC started flashing red. Moments later a 3D image of Felix was visible beside Siegfried Angstrom and the doctor.
Shocked, Felix realized he was on the air.
“Felix Taylor from Toronto is on the line,” Angstrom said. “Good evening, Felix. What’s on your mind?”
“Pardon me?” Felix asked, his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth.
“Don’t tell me you’re nervous,” Angstrom jeered. “Or maybe your ERR implants have failed?”
“I’ve never undergone ERR,” Felix gulped, trying hard to focus his thoughts.
“You’ve got to be kidding!” Angstrom growled. “In that case, call back when you’ve undergone treatment or have a grip on your nerves.”
“No, I’m fine,” Felix spoke, swallowing his terror.
“Okay.” Angstrom smiled. “Have you a question for our guest?”
“Actually,” Felix