Free Asterisk by Campbell Armstrong Page B

“No jokes with this mother. You got it?”
    Lykiard nodded.
    3
    The night was clear, starry, a slight wind blowing away the haze that had hung all day over the city. Through the lens Dilbeck had a clear view of the crater Copernicus and, to the north, the area known as Mare Imbrium, the Sea of Rains. It was amazing, sometimes, the clarity of vision. Beside him on the darkened lawn Sharpe’s cigarette glowed intermittently red.
    â€œTake a look,” Dilbeck said. “But don’t touch the adjustment.”
    Sharpe put his eye to the telescope that Stood on a tripod. The moon appeared to shimmer, as though it were a large silver coin immersed in moving water. Very impressive, he thought.
    â€œI built it myself,” Dilbeck said. “I’m working on a stronger one now.”
    â€œIt’s really something,” Sharpe said, straightening, stepping back from the instrument. He looked across the lawn at the house. The lights in the conservatory were pale; the shadows of a thousand plants pressed against the glass. There was no sign now of the daughter. No piano playing. In the darkness, Dilbeck sighed.
    â€œSo,” he said. There was a suggestion of finality in the way he said the word, as if he were concluding a lecture and something necessary had just been proved beyond doubt.
    Sharpe held his cigarette, not knowing what to do with the butt. He somehow knew that Dilbeck thought of his lawn as one might value a Persian rug. Dilbeck moved in the direction of the house and Sharpe followed a pace or two behind. They went inside the conservatory. It smelled musty. Somewhere in the middle of all these healthy plants, Sharpe thought, there’s one rotting away.
    â€œWe have a slight puzzle,” Dilbeck said.
    Sharpe stared at a pale fluorescent tube that glimmered on the far wall. Something exotic was being cultivated beneath it. He wondered if Dilbeck talked to his plants.
    â€œThorne’s mind,” Dilbeck said. “A man’s mind is private by nature. We live our lives locked away, don’t we? What are we ever sure of? What are you ever sure of, Sharpe?”
    What is this? Sharpe wondered. Philosophy 101?
    â€œAre you sure that you’re always doing the right thing?” Dilbeck asked, turning to face him, seeming to loom over him in such a way that the question was no mere rhetorical cant.
    â€œI go by the book,” Sharpe said.
    â€œBecause you think the book is right?”
    â€œIt’s the only book I know.”
    Dilbeck moved away in the direction of the fluorescent light. On a small table there was a glass case of the kind that housed tropical fish. Inside was a small plant.
    â€œBrazilian edelweiss,” Dilbeck said.
    Sharpe looked at the glass, the reflection of light.
    â€œWas there something other than a blank manuscript in that case?” Dilbeck said.
    â€œEvery move Thorne makes—”
    â€œLet’s be interested in every thought Thorne thinks,” Dilbeck said. “A man’s observable behavior can only take us so far. How do we begin to learn what he thinks?”
    Sharpe put out his hand as if to touch the glass case, then he remembered he was still holding the stub of a lit cigarette. How the hell do I get rid of this?
    â€œPressure,” Dilbeck said. “When the time is right. If the time is ever right.”
    Sharpe watched as Dilbeck moved down the tables.
    â€œIn your book,” he was saying, “in your book pressure usually means one thing. But there are other kinds. More subtle kinds.”
    Sharpe thought of Tarkington slumped asleep behind the wheel of a car.
    â€œYour predecessor was a man of some finesse,” Dilbeck said.
    â€œHollander?”
    â€œHe would have understood this situation rather well,” Dilbeck said. “But as he grew older he began to develop certain sensitivities. In your job, a poet is the very last thing you need to be. He had ceased to have the soul of a