almost chuckled, a kind of choking sound. “That’s what some of the boys call the case: No Luck.”
“Ah, well.” Mulheisen grimaced. “And if I go talk to him it won’t go over too well—if I’m not in. Hmmmm. Any connection to Service?”
“The only connection that I know of is Service’s name turned up on this guy’s Web site,” Wunney said.
“Terrorists have Web sites?”
“Of course they do, Mul. Where have you been? Anyway, all’s he said about Service was that Service was a fed, an agent. It was supposed to be a word to the faithful to avoid him. But, as Tucker said, they say that about anyone, sometimes it’s just a cover, disinformation.” He paused, then asked, “So? You in?”
“I’ll let you know,” Mulheisen said. “What’s this guy’s full name?”
“Martin Parvis Luck,” Wunney said, “but he goes by just the initials, M.P. He lives upstate, a little town called Queensleap.”
It was such a muddle, Mulheisen thought, as he drove home along Lake St. Clair. Too many different services and factions, running around like the Keystone Kops, waving billy clubs and tumblingall over one another. And anyway, he was not a man obsessed with justice, not a revenger; he was with the late Humphrey DiEbola on that issue. So what, he asked himself, was he? An old dog, addicted to old tricks? Why had he ever gotten into this game? He had an orderly mind. He liked to know as much as he could. Puzzles attracted him; he liked to see a pattern. He was also patient. He felt that many puzzles, over time, simply resolved themselves.
He sometimes thought that up close, in the turbulence of the present, things were clouded. But with the passage of time, as in a river, the silt fell away. The opaque became translucent, if not transparent. One came to understand, more or less, how something happened, or could have happened, who was involved, what was behind the issue once so mysterious and later so evident.
There was no denying that there was a personal element here, but he refused to feel compulsive about this. It would resolve itself without him, he was sure.
His mother was old. She would die soon. He felt fairly coldblooded about it. It made him sad, but beyond that he couldn’t see that there was anything compelling about this mystery. He would die too. Perhaps before his mother. If it could be avoided, of course, one would avoid it. But death would come, willy-nilly.
In the long run the great trivial purpose of maximum entropy will prevail, he said to himself, quoting Norbert Wiener, the great mathematician, a statement that had sometimes soothed his mind, got him through the night. It didn’t particularly soothe him at the moment.
Did that mean he didn’t love his mother? Oh, no. All he wanted to do at the moment was take care of her, see her returned to at least a semblance of her old self. He’d like to go on a bird walk with her, have her point out the rose-breasted grosbeak. That wasn’t much to ask, he thought. That, and build his little study.
The sun was very bright on the lake. Unconsciously, he whistled that Gershwin tune under his breath, “Love Is Here to Stay.”
For the next few days he was busy taking his mother to the doctor for new tests. They were thrilled with her progress. She wasn’t just singing, she was clearly becoming aware. This wasn’t unmitigated joy. She was alarmed. Mulheisen could only imagine what was racing through her mind: What has happened to me? Am I all right? Why is Mul here? Am I dying?
It was too much for her. She lapsed into long periods of sleep. The doctors said that was good. They were excited that she had not experienced the classic symptoms of a stroke, of permanent aphasia. She wasn’t incapable of speech. Of course, she hadn’t had a stroke. She’d had a tremendous shock. As they explained it, her systems had not shut down, thankfully, but they had provided something like buffers, or filters, an inner sanctum where she could recover
“Ah, well.” Mulheisen grimaced. “And if I go talk to him it won’t go over too well—if I’m not in. Hmmmm. Any connection to Service?”
“The only connection that I know of is Service’s name turned up on this guy’s Web site,” Wunney said.
“Terrorists have Web sites?”
“Of course they do, Mul. Where have you been? Anyway, all’s he said about Service was that Service was a fed, an agent. It was supposed to be a word to the faithful to avoid him. But, as Tucker said, they say that about anyone, sometimes it’s just a cover, disinformation.” He paused, then asked, “So? You in?”
“I’ll let you know,” Mulheisen said. “What’s this guy’s full name?”
“Martin Parvis Luck,” Wunney said, “but he goes by just the initials, M.P. He lives upstate, a little town called Queensleap.”
It was such a muddle, Mulheisen thought, as he drove home along Lake St. Clair. Too many different services and factions, running around like the Keystone Kops, waving billy clubs and tumblingall over one another. And anyway, he was not a man obsessed with justice, not a revenger; he was with the late Humphrey DiEbola on that issue. So what, he asked himself, was he? An old dog, addicted to old tricks? Why had he ever gotten into this game? He had an orderly mind. He liked to know as much as he could. Puzzles attracted him; he liked to see a pattern. He was also patient. He felt that many puzzles, over time, simply resolved themselves.
He sometimes thought that up close, in the turbulence of the present, things were clouded. But with the passage of time, as in a river, the silt fell away. The opaque became translucent, if not transparent. One came to understand, more or less, how something happened, or could have happened, who was involved, what was behind the issue once so mysterious and later so evident.
There was no denying that there was a personal element here, but he refused to feel compulsive about this. It would resolve itself without him, he was sure.
His mother was old. She would die soon. He felt fairly coldblooded about it. It made him sad, but beyond that he couldn’t see that there was anything compelling about this mystery. He would die too. Perhaps before his mother. If it could be avoided, of course, one would avoid it. But death would come, willy-nilly.
In the long run the great trivial purpose of maximum entropy will prevail, he said to himself, quoting Norbert Wiener, the great mathematician, a statement that had sometimes soothed his mind, got him through the night. It didn’t particularly soothe him at the moment.
Did that mean he didn’t love his mother? Oh, no. All he wanted to do at the moment was take care of her, see her returned to at least a semblance of her old self. He’d like to go on a bird walk with her, have her point out the rose-breasted grosbeak. That wasn’t much to ask, he thought. That, and build his little study.
The sun was very bright on the lake. Unconsciously, he whistled that Gershwin tune under his breath, “Love Is Here to Stay.”
For the next few days he was busy taking his mother to the doctor for new tests. They were thrilled with her progress. She wasn’t just singing, she was clearly becoming aware. This wasn’t unmitigated joy. She was alarmed. Mulheisen could only imagine what was racing through her mind: What has happened to me? Am I all right? Why is Mul here? Am I dying?
It was too much for her. She lapsed into long periods of sleep. The doctors said that was good. They were excited that she had not experienced the classic symptoms of a stroke, of permanent aphasia. She wasn’t incapable of speech. Of course, she hadn’t had a stroke. She’d had a tremendous shock. As they explained it, her systems had not shut down, thankfully, but they had provided something like buffers, or filters, an inner sanctum where she could recover
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