Kiln People

I spoke louder. “Hello, Ritu?”

Inside lay Yosil Maharal’s home office, featuring a desk and bookshelf covered with old-fashioned papertomes and lasersheet folios. One shelf of a display case held awards and honors. Others displayed strange trophies — like an array of mounted hands, ranging widely in size and coloration. Some were sliced open to show metal parts, relics of a time when dittoclay had to be slathered over robot frames, when clanking duplicates were techno-playthings for the rich, at once both crude and awe-inspiring, enabling just an elite to divide their lives and be in two places at the same time.

An era when dittos were called “deputies,” and those who could afford them seemed ordained to have much bigger lives than the rest of humankind. Before Aeneas Kaolin gave self-copying to the masses.

It was quite a display. But right then my chief concern lay in the part of the room I couldn’t see, far from the window, steeped in shadows.

“Lights on,” I tried from the doorway. But the house computer was voice-keyed, barring unknown guests from even courtesy control. Yosil was some host.

I could try transmitting the command through Nell, asserting my investigation contract with Maharal’s daughter and heir. But the chain of handshakes and probate haggles could take minutes, distracting me the whole time.

No doubt a conventional light switch lay just yonder, within easy reach … and reach of some lurker-in-the-dark, armed with any weapon my eager imagination could provide.

Was I being paranoid? Fine.

“Ritu, if that’s you, just tell me to come in … or to wait outside.”

I heard a soft sound, within. Not breathing, but another rustle. I felt tension beyond the door. Something like coiled energy.

“Is that you, ditAlbert?”

The voice came from upstairs, behind me. Ritu, calling down, without a hint of guile.

“Yeah! It’s me,” I answered without turning. “Did you … do you have other company?”

Through the frosted glass, I spied another shudder. This time a straightening, perhaps signaling resignation. I backed away several steps across the atrium, giving leeway to whatever might emerge.

I also eyed escape paths, just in case.

“What did you say?” Ritu shouted again from above. “I didn’t expect you for an hour. Can you wait?”

A silhouette crossed the closed half of the glazed double door. Tall, angular … and gray — it drew closer.

For an instant, I thought I had it! A furtive gray, in this house? Who else could it be but the ghost? Maharal’s ghost! The one that didn’t want to spend its last moments in a lab, being dissected for trace memories. It would be a shambling wraith by now, persisting by sheer will power, burning its final reserve of élan vital before melting away.

I readied to pounce, demanding answers. Like what happened to my own ditto! The one I sent to the mansion this morn -

— then blinked in surprise. The figure that emerged wasn’t Maharal’s ghost. Not even gray, strictly speaking.

A gleaming platinum stepped under the speckled light. The golem-sigil on its brow shone like a jewel.

“Vic Kaolin,” I said.

“Yes,” the ditto nodded, covering its agitation with pugnacity. “And who might you be? What business do you have in this house?”

Surprised, I raised a spackled eyebrow.

“Why, the job you hired me to do, sir.”

That wasn’t strictly true. I wanted to probe this ditto’s level of ignorance. His glossy expression froze, transforming rapidly from pugnacious to guarded.

“Ah … yes. Albert. It’s good to see you again.”

Despite its lame effort at a recovery, this was clearly a different ditKaolin than the one I met early this morning, as dawn broke over the shattered windows of the Teller Building. Nor did it share any recent memories with the one who phoned me at home around noon, hectoring me while I imprinted the ebony. This one didn’t remember me at all.

Well, in itself, that meant little. It could have been imprinted hours before all that. But then, why pretend to know me? Why not just admit ignorance? He could send a query to his rig. Get an update from the real Kaolin.

Here’s a life lesson — don’t embarrass the mighty. Let ’em save face. Always give them an out.

I pointed into the home office of Yosil Maharal. “Did you find anything useful?”

The guarded expression deepened. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you’re here for the same reason I am, right? Looking for clues. Something to explain why your friend kept skipping town, evading the all-seeing World Eye for weeks at a stretch. And especially what he was doing last night, racing across the desert, careening over highway viaducts.”

Before he could answer, Ritu called down again.

“Albert? Who are you talking to?” ditKaolin’s dark eyes met mine. Following my adage, I gave him that out.

“I met a shiny new Aeneas, coming up the walk!” I shouted up the stairs. “We entered together.”

The platinum ditto nodded. Acknowledging a debt. He would have preferred going u

“Oh Aeneas, I wish you wouldn’t hover so! I’m all right, really.” She sounded exasperated. “But as long as you’re here, would you show Albert around?”

“Of course, dear,” ditKaolin answered, gazing briefly upstairs. “Take your time.”

When he faced me again, there was no trace of agitation, or pugnacity. Only serene calm.

“What were we discussing?” he asked.

Crum! I thought. You’d think a rich bastard could order up ditto blanks that concentrate better.

Aloud, I prompted, “Clues, sir.”

“Ah, yes. Clues. I looked for some, but—” The platinum head shook, left and right. “Maybe a professional like you can do better.”

Despite everything, Kaolin is only guessing that I’m a ditective, I thought. Why doesn’t he just ask?

“After you.” I gestured politely, insisting he reenter the office ahead of me.

He turned, spoke a command, and light filled the room. So Maharal must have given voice authorization to his boss. Or else -

I felt another vague suspicion simmer in the part of my skull where I chain that crazy but creative beast, paranoia. Keeping the ditto in sight, never turning completely away from him, I looked over a display case while tapping cipher-code with my teeth.

Nell. Verify Kaolin sent this dit. Confirm it’s legit.

She acknowledged the work order, flashing in my left eye. But even with my priority as the real guy, this query could take time, leaving me wondering about a possibility.

Dr. Maharal had been an expert in duplication tech, and a gifted hobbyist at the arcane art of disguise. He also seemed blithe about mere inconveniences like the law. With his Universal Kilns access, he could borrow all sorts of templates … including possibly that of Aeneas Kaolin.

So, could this platinum be another Maharal ghost, masquerading as the Vic?

But that didn’t make sense. realMaharal’s corpse had been cold for nearly a day, but the platinum looked much newer. No way this could be Ritu’s daddit, in disguise.

Well, organic imagination doesn’t have to make sense, I recalled. Nor must paranoia be reasonable. It’s a beast who barks at nothing … till the day it’s right.

There was a simple way to verify the platinum’s identity. As a real person, I could turn and demand its pellet … at the cost of revealing my own costume ruse. I chose against it. Nell should answer soon, anyway. So I fixed my attention on Maharal’s home.

The office showed signs of recent amateur tampering. Table legs were shoved out of old carpet impressions. The contents of book and display cases had all shifted, disturbing dust layers as someone groped all over, perhaps looking for hidden panels.