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Hmm. Very impressive. And how many separate documents is that? Ap-
proximately?
Ten billion.
Broken down into various categories, I ll be bound?
There are fifteen thousand separate categories of document.
Almost there. Just lead it those last few steps.
And are there any catalogues that record the titles of all the documents in
each category?
Each category has a category catalogue that fulfils that function.
The Doctor s mind was racing: checking each logical step to ensure that it
led to one and only one conclusion. A paradoxical one. And I presume that
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the category catalogues do not actually contain entries for themselves. That
would be stupid, wouldn t it?
The robot thought for a moment, almost as if it sensed the yawning logi-
cal trapdoor. No, it said finally, the subject category catalogues do not list
themselves as entries.
The Doctor wiped a bead of sweat from his temple. Time to spring the trap.
If there were to be a catalogue that listed all of the catalogues that do not list
themselves, he said carefully, then which catalogue would list this catalogue?
The robot stood, and thought. And thought. And thought a bit more.
The Doctor rubbed his hands together with glee. Good old Bertrand Russell.
Time to really get to work.
From orbit, the Earth seemed a lush, verdant world, ripe with promise and
bereft of civilization.
Micheal van Looft, shift supervisor on the Vigilant IX orbital laser satellite,
knew it wasn t true. He knew that the green of the continents were just the
cultivated tops of floating buildings, and the blue of the seas was a few metres
of water protecting vast algae farms, and that thirty billion or so people lived
down there, loved down there and died down there.
And he knew that his boyfriend was having an affair down there.
He d known for months. Nick had simcorded up to the satellite shortly after
Micheal s three-month tour commenced and told Micheal about it, laughing
as he did so. He d enjoyed taunting Micheal with stories of how good his lover
was in bed. Micheal had felt like a knife had been thrust into his guts.
After three months he thought he d got used to the idea. Life was quiet on
the Vigilant belt. Nobody really thought that any aliens were going to attack
they d all been pacified during the Wars of Acquisition and if they did, there
would be plenty of warning. He read books, watched simcords, and thought.
After three months, he d persuaded himself that he was better off without
Nick. Honestly, he was.
And then he d woken from a tormented dream in which Nick s face was
obliterated by maggots of flame, and he padded naked from his bunk to the
laser battery control room, and overrode the failsafes, and turned the satellite
around so that the lasers pointed at Earth, not into space.
And so he sat there, the cross-hairs slaved to track the tower that Nick
lived in as the satellite transited the Earth. At that range, the beam would be
five or six metres wide at the surface, and hot enough to melt rock. In five
minutes the rotation of the Earth and the orbit of the satellite would carry
the tower over the horizon. It was long enough. Long enough to remember
the humiliation, the aching pain of betrayal, the long, sleepless, tear-stained
nights.
72
And even as his finger circled the edge of the button, feeling its silky smooth
texture, running lightly across the incised letters of the word FIRE, something
inside him screamed that this was insane.
But he pressed the button anyway.
Tisane? Provost-Major Beltempest said.
Bless you, Bernice replied.
He smiled.
No, you misunderstand. I was asking whether you wanted a tisane. It s an
infusion of leaves in hot water.
I didn t misunderstand at all, she sighed. I was making a joke. A small
joke. And talking of small jokes, where is the Doctor?
Beltempest eased his elephantine body out of his oversized chair and
walked over to a filing cabinet with an impressive security lock. Placing his
palm against it, he said, Your friend is currently held in a secure cell. I ll deal
with him in good time. First, I thought I should have a chat with you.
I think I should warn you, I m not very communicative under stress.
You d be surprised, he said calmly as the cabinet opened to reveal a kettle,
a tea caddy and two cups.
Bernice bit back a sarcastic response and took a moment to study the
provost-major as he busied himself pouring water into the cups and adding
a sprinkling of dried leaves from the caddy. He made a strange figure amid
the walnut panelling and lace curtains of his office. He must have been well
over six feet tall, and his stomach bulged so far that it must have been years
since he last saw his feet. His skin was the colour of Earth s sky at dawn, his
trunk swung back and forth as he moved and he had the sweetest, kindest
eyes Bernice had ever seen.
He handed her a cup of tea and settled himself back into his seat. She
sniffed the tea cautiously. Spicy, but not unpleasant.
How did you know who we were? she said. I mean, how did you know
that we weren t who we said we were?
He looked away, out of the window. Your name appeared on the Arach-
nae s passenger manifest, he said. When we cross-referenced to Imperial
Landsknecht records, which we always do in order to spot potential terrorists,
troublemakers and deserters, your names sprang up in glowing red letters
underlined in fire. Known troublemakers.
You re lying.
Would you believe that a little bird told me?
No. Bernice shook her head. You were tipped off, weren t you?
Beltempest s face was the picture of innocence. By whom?
By the person who stole the TARDIS and tried to kill us.
73
That sounds like paranoia to me, he said, leaning forward in apparent
interest. What s the TARDIS when it s at home?
She sighed. Look, she said, we re getting on so well, but can I ask what s
going to happen to me?
You ll be shot, he said calmly, and sipped at his tisane.
What! Bernice exploded. But I thought
Beltempest s stare was implacable, and tinged with disdain. The sentence
for impersonating a Landsknecht investigator is death, he said, pressing a
button on his desk. The door opened and a yellow- and red-splotched war-
bot strode in, weaponry bristling. Take her to the prep centre, he said, and
smiled. Don t worry, he added, your death will be useful to us.
What about an appeal? she yelled.
If you like, he said, and raised a hand to his head for a minute as if he was
thinking. I m sorry, he said after a moment, your appeal failed.
The bot took her arm in a surprisingly gentle grip and led her towards the
door. She felt her spirits sink. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] - zanotowane.pl
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