The Golden by Lucius Shepard Page B

apologies,” Beheim said, and again shuffled through his
notes. “Jules has also indicated that you are embarked upon a
lengthy study. Might I ask what is the subject of your researches?”
    “That is
irrelevant to your investigation.”
    “It may
well be,” Beheim said. “But I’m afraid I must be
the judge of that.”
    “Your
imperatives are not mine,” said Kostolec, anger edging into his
voice.
    “True, I
cannot force you to answer. I can only note that you do not. However,
it’s possible that your researches have some relevance of which
you are unaware. And even if they are irrelevant, why not settle the
matter?”
    Kostolec was
silent for a long moment; nothing about his posture or expression
gave a clue to his mood. Beheim gazed down over the railing at the
corkscrewing stairway beneath. Beams of light struck into the center
of the well from a number of lower landings, given distinct form by
the dust suspended in the air; bindings gleamed in the shadows like
seams of ore. Far below, a glowing orange dot bobbled like a firefly
in the grainy darkness. Probably another scholar ascending with a
lantern. A faint creaking noise came from the landing above, but
Beheim saw no one there. The structure settling, he supposed.
    Finally Kostolec
said, “I’m certain you have taken into account the insult
implicit in your questioning.”
    “Obviously
I regret the necessity—” Beheim began, but Kostolec cut
him off.
    “On the
other hand,” he went on, “ I must take into account
your inexperience and the impossible position in which you have been
placed. Therefore I will answer your question.”
    A bland smile
etched the lines deeper on his withered face, and Beheim, shocked by
this display of rationality, murmured his thanks.
    “I am
studying the future,” Kostolec said.
    Beheim waited
for a further explanation, but none was forthcoming. He glanced at
Alexandra; she lifted one shoulder in an almost imperceptible shrug.
Kostolec continued to smile.
    “Would you
care to be more specific?” Beheim asked.
    “No, I
would not.”
    “Very
well.” Beheim paced to the edge of the landing, glanced down
again into the well. Another faint creaking noise came to his ears.
“It seems that the future, at least your conception of it, is
somehow related to the records of the Royal Portuguese Botanical
Society. The book you were examining appears to contain some of their
colonial journals. The palm tree on the cover indicates to me that
the work concerns a tropical land. The crescent”—he
spread his hands—“perhaps refers to Islam. A tropical
Portuguese colony with an Islamic population? I am not familiar with
the history of the Portuguese expansion. However, certain sections of
Africa spring to mind. Or perhaps a colony farther east. What do you
think? Since the Orient is the focus of a discussion that has
recently occupied our attention, I would hazard a guess that you may
be searching for a site in the Far East that would be suitable for
our relocation.”
    “I once
had a dog who could stand on his hind legs and bark,” Kostolec
said. “A clever little fellow. Most entertaining.”
    “I’m
pleased to have awakened your nostalgia,” said Beheim.
    “But mere
cleverness can achieve nothing, and that is precisely what you have
achieved by discerning the subject of my study. What relation could
there be between my bookish pursuits and the murder of the Golden?”
    “None that
I can see,” said Beheim. “And yet this question of our
migration is a color that tints the entire investigation. At least I
have a sense that it does. Few of our interrelations are simple
affairs. Whatever the sequence of events, whatever the superficial
justification for those events, the actions we take seem to resonate
on many levels, to draw together a variety of concerns into the
mechanisms of a single passion. I believe it would be foolish to take
a simplistic view of the crime, to attempt to separate it, in my
consideration, from