Page 87 - Psychoceramics and the Test of Fire
P. 87

Hitler’s Ghost

          I  grinned.  “That  could  be  grounds  for  blackmail,  or  sale  to  the
        highest-bidding tabloid.”
          Ludwig  almost  looked  shocked.  “That  would  not  be  advancing
        human  knowledge.  The  process  is  intellectual  property,  not  its
        results.”
          “Indeed.  Noble  sentiments.  I  can  see  why  Penultimate  Press
        would select you for this contract. Let me have your address, and I’ll
        send  it  to  you.  Sign  it,  return  it  and  we’ll  get  the  advance  moving
        through our business office.”
          He nodded, impatient to be back at his keyboard. “I’ll e-mail it to
        you. This is your address on the card, right?”  I tried nodding back,
        but his gaze was glued to the screen. “Yes. Well, goodbye, then.” I
        rose, stretched a bit, and sauntered off to buy some peanuts for the
        frustrated squirrels and pigeons.
          The “noble sentiments” crack I’d made came back to haunt me a
        few months later. Penultimate Press announced it had gone bankrupt
        and  was  ceasing  operations  not  long  after  Ludwig  received  his
        “advance.”  I  drew  my  own  payment  from  Al  Magnus’s  non-profit
        front organization and took a trip posthaste to Hawaii to see how the
        surf looked from different balconies of resort hotels with beachfront
        penthouses. Were I to hang around the scene of these non-crimes,
        despite erasure of my false identity, I would be endangering the entire
        enterprise;  so  a  long  vacation  was  always  advisable.    And  I  wasn’t
        then terribly curious about how any of the literally gifted crackpots
        fared  after  my  role  in  their  financing  ended.  News  had  a  way  of
        finding me, however; I suppose if I really didn’t want to know I’d
        have given up my daily perusal of newspapers and news broadcasts.
        But  that  was  a  habit  I’d  acquired  long  before  starting  this  weird
        commitment to making dreams come true.
          So I did find out about Roy Ludwig’s fate. Or as much as could be
        learned without exposing myself to  scrutiny. Someone had taken a
        shot at him; it could have been a coincidence—one of those cases of
        being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But it left him partially
        paralyzed,  unable  to speak  or move his limbs.  He would  not write
        another line of code. As yet another victim of random violence he
        would not have been newsworthy, save for a controversy in which he
        was  embroiled  immediately  prior  to  the  shooting.  He  had  indeed
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