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“What do you think?” Lambe asked eagerly.
“Magnificent.”
They relaxed.
Blackburn raised his glass again. “And, it so happens, I have something to a
Both friends turned to him eagerly.
“Fill your glasses.”
They did so with alacrity.
“As you know, since selling Gramnet for two billion, I’ve been knocking around, looking for some new little thing to mess around with. I believe I’ve found that thing.”
“Can you talk about it?” asked Calderón.
Blackburn enjoyed the long pause.
“It has to do with sca
“But Google’s been working on image-matching technology for years,” said Lambe. “They can’t seem to get it right.”
“I’m going to use a different technology: old-fashioned elbow grease. I’ve got thousands of programmers and researchers I can put to work on it, 24/7. I’m going to build the largest online multimedia database on the web.”
“How?”
“Images can be linked just like web pages. People searching images go from one similar image to the next. Don’t analyze the metadata or the images: analyze thelinks . Once they’re in your own database, you can build on billions, trillions, of user-generated links. Then I’ll grab the images themselves, super-high-res, and use algorithms and mathematical signatures to compress them. I’ve got a dozen server farms, idling, just waiting to be filled with data like this.”
“But the copyrights to the images—how will you deal with that?”
“Screw copyright. Copyright’s dead. This is the web. Information should be free for the taking. Everybody else is doing it—why not me?”
A reverent hush fell on the group.
“And to kick it off, I’ve got an ace in the hole.” He raised his glass and gave a deep-throated chortle. “
And what an ace it is
.”
Then he took a three-hundred-dollar swallow of wine, closing his eyes with sheer orgiastic pleasure.
“Mr. Blackburn?” a low, deferential voice sounded at his elbow.
Blackburn turned, a
Blackburn frowned. “Who are you?”
“Pat Kemper’s the name. I’m chief security officer of the
Brita
. May I have a few words with you privately?”
“Security? What’s this about?”
“Don’t be alarmed, it’s routine.”
“My friends can hear anything you have to tell me.”
Kemper hesitated a moment. “Very well. Mind if I take a seat?” And glancing quickly around the dining salon, he took a chair at Blackburn’s right.
“My deep apologies for interrupting your di
“The maid?” Blackburn frowned. “I have my own private maid, and she’s supposed to supervise your people.”
“Santamaria cleaned your room twice. The second time was on the first night of the voyage, around eight-thirty P.M., when she went in to turn down your beds. Do you recall her coming to your suite?” “Eight-thirty last night?” Blackburn leaned back in his chair, took another sip of wine. “Nobody was there. My own maid was in medical, seasick and puking her guts out. I was at di
“I apologize for that, sir. But you don’t know of anything that might have happened in the suite that evening? An incident, someone she might have interacted with? Or perhaps she might have broken something, or . . . perhaps stolen something?”
“What, did something happen to her afterward?”
The security officer hesitated. “As a matter of fact, yes. Ms. Santamaria had a breakdown shortly after leaving your suite. She subsequently took her own life. Yet those who knew her, bunkmates and the like, saw no sign of impending trouble. She was, they say, a well-adjusted, religious person.”
“That’s what they always say about a mass murderer or suicide,” Blackburn said, with a scoff.
“They also mentioned that, when Ms. Santamaria left for work that day, she was in good spirits.”
“I can’t help you,” Blackburn said, swirling his wine and raising his glass to his nose again, inhaling. “Nobody was there. Nothing was broken or stolen. Believe me, I would know: I keep track of my stuff.”
“Anything she might have seen or touched? Something that might have frightened her?”
Blackburn suddenly paused in the middle of the oenophilic ritual, the glass arrested halfway to his mouth. After a long moment he set it down without having sipped from it.
“Mr. Blackburn?” Kemper prodded.
Blackburn turned to look at him. “Absolutely not,” he said in a thin, emotionless voice. “There was nothing. As I said, no one was there. My maid was in the infirmary. I was at di
“Very good,” said Kemper, rising. “I assumed as much, but you know, protocol and everything. North Star would have my hide if I didn’t go through the motions.” He smiled. “Gentlemen, we’ll speak no more about this subject. Thank you for your patience, and have a pleasant evening.” He nodded at each man in turn, then quickly walked away.
Lambe watched the security chief thread his way among the tables. Then he turned to Blackburn. “Well, what do you make of that, Scott old boy? Strange doings belowdecks!” And he struck a melodramatic pose.
Blackburn did not reply.
The waiter glided up to their table. “May I recite the chef’s specials for the evening, gentlemen?”
“Please. I’ve got two days of eating to catch up on.” And Lambe rubbed his hands together.
Abruptly, Blackburn stood up, his chair tilting backward violently.
“Scott?” Calderón said, looking at him with concern. “Not hungry,” Blackburn said. His face had gone pale.
“Hey, Scotty—” Lambe began. “Hey, wait! Where are you going?”
“Stateroom.” And without another word, Blackburn turned and exited the restaurant.
25
THAT SOUNDS JUST AWFUL,” SAID THE KIND, ATTRACTIVE STRANGER. “Would it help if I spoke to the old lady?”
“Oh, no,” Inge replied, horrified at the suggestion. “No, please don’t. It isn’t that bad, really. I’ve gotten used to it.”