Conscience of the Beagle Read Online Free PDF Page A

Vanderslice. “Your government did it.”
    He puts the platter down in the center of the table and pulls up a chair. Apples. He brought us real apples cut in slices. And grapes like frosted green glass. A mound of cherries, still with their stems. Slices of melon too perfect, too orange to touch.
    I pick up a cherry. Halfway to my mouth, my hand freezes. Beagle’s glaring at me.
    “It’s there to find, Dr. Taylor.” Vanderslice plucks a grape and rolls it between his fingers. “But wasn’t finding it a little too easy?”
    Of course it was. If Vanderslice found it, it had to be. And Beagle’s so fucking brilliant.
    Beagle’s eyes never leave mine. “It’s not good procedure to discuss this with a governmental representative present.”
    Vanderslice puts the grape on the table and regards it as if he expects it to talk. It lies there, separated from its peers: a pale-green enigma.
    Beagle sits back. Laces his hands over his stomach. “Your orders called us here, Mr. Minister. You didn’t go through Marvin. Do you really want us to solve this case, or do you need someone else to blame failure on?”
    No one else seems hungry. I pop the cherry into my mouth. A surprise: firmer that I had imagined; and sweeter. But an unexpected harness inside.
    Vanderslice says, “Marvin and I have divergent views.”
    “What about?”
    “There was a man named Paulie Hendrix.” A pucker between Vanderslice’s eyebrows mars the blondness of his face. “He was killed in the fourth blast. The Warriors discovered incriminating statements in his DEEP, too. Marvin doesn’t know who’s behind the bombings, but he believes in revolutions. That’s because he believes in sin, you see.”
    Vanderslice picks the grape from the table and squeezes it. He squeezes until the skin bulges. Until juice bleeds from its end. “When Paulie Hendrix died, Marvin stole his good name. His money. His house. He confiscated everything. Hendrix—” He stops himself as if startled by his own intensity. “Hendrix was always a little questionable. Not quite the ideal Tennysonian Christian. Marvin wouldn’t hurt someone to protect himself, but he’s always punished heresy. And there was lots of heresy in Paulie Hendrix’s DEEP.”
    Vanderslice looks at me. At the grape. “Okay. He broke the Apostay Laws. But there’s a difference between preaching evolution and fomenting rebellion. Paulie Hendrix would never be a part of that.”
    Szabo takes and apple slice from the platter and bites into it. From the silence, a crisp, moist snap.
    “How do you know for sure?” Beagle asks.
    Vanderslice puts the grape on the table. He lays it down as if giving it rest. “Paulie Hendrix was my best friend.”

I WATCH Vanderslice wend his way through the forest. Then Szabo blurts, “He lied.”
    Dissapointment is painful, but I should have learned better by now. “What about?”
    “I don’t know. But he’s lying to us.”
    “A shame,” I say. And I mean it.
    The sun through the skylight turns brassy. Day is dying in the lingering way of late spring. From the blue shadows of the lobby, peacocks call to each other in low oboe hoots.
    “Still, though, I don’t think he’s dangerous.” Szabo runs a hand fussily over his bald head.
    Beagle says, “Don’t let your personal feelings in the way.”
    “I’m a psychic. My personal feelings are supposed to get in the way. I don’t have anything else to go on but personal feelings.”
    “Okay. Okay. But doesn’t this seem too contrived? After all, the best way to keep an eye on us is to name a government insider as our liaison. Religion makes us uncomfortable, so to put us at ease, Vanderslice ridicules Marvin. He doesn’t know dick about us. He has no guarantee we won’t tattle on him. If he was that stupid, how long do you think he’s keep his job?”
    The affable Szabo goes red-faced. Angry or pretending? “Don’t pull your M-8 status shit with me. I don’t care how famous you are. You may be a