Page 99 - Psychoceramics and the Test of Fire

The Vorax

I followed my usual exit strategy as soon as I learned the money
was in his hands. About the time he would have his nascent Vorax
workforce ready to ship, he would discover that neither I nor my
purported native place were anywhere to be found; that was the end
of my obligation: whatever the sequelae, he was on his own. If he
couldn’t find any other takers for his product, at least he would have
had the satisfaction of actualizing his offbeat ideas.
I was reading background material for my next assignment when
one of Magnus’s researchers forwarded me an article in the back
pages of a newspaper from Avery Goodman’s city. “Homeless Man
Arrested in Mysterious Warehouse Fire: Arsonist Awaits
Psychological Evaluation” ran the headline and subhead. The
suspect, identified as Sonny Freckler, was among the spectators
witnessing the destruction of that three-story structure at midnight.
Fire department investigators frequently scan such onlookers for
telltale traces of guilty behavior, and employ dogs to sniff out
combustible materials they may have recently handled. Taken into
custody, the man confessed to the crime, but recited an incoherent
justification for it. Although he was charged, his appearance in court
was delayed pending a determination of his sanity.
Mr. Freckler’s story was this: he had long been a habitué of the
neighborhood, on occasion squatting in abandoned buildings. In this
he was not unique, and fires are often blamed on the activities of
such illegal residents—as contrary to their interests as it might seem.
But the suspect was living in the warehouse when it burned. He had
bivouacked there earlier in the year, but was forced to leave when a
new tenant moved in. Nevertheless he frequently passed by his
former pied-à-terre, waiting for an opportunity to move back in if the
place showed signs of being vacated again. Instead, so he claimed, he
observed goings-on which first piqued his curiosity, then profoundly
frightened him and finally led to his criminal act.
The windows of the place were blackened, a common practice in
old downtown warehouses, but Sonny saw through cracks in the
glass that the interior was brightly-lit, day and night, on all three
floors. That was odd, unless the establishment operated as an illegal
sweatshop, with immigrants laboring all hours on piecework
assembly. But he never saw anyone enter or leave the building. The
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