Benjamin stood outside Anton's town house in Georgetown. It was typical of the neighborhood, with an undersized front door-a relic left from a time when apparently people were shorter-and the black shutters on the windows fronted by black wrought-iron fences and short hedges. He noticed there were cornstalk decorations in front of some of the doors, and a few houses had already placed pumpkins outside on their steps.
He lifted the brass knocker, tapped it on the door three times, and waited. He heard footsteps coming, someone fumbling with a lock, then the door swung open.
He was greeted by the sight of a short, rounded older man dressed in a thick sweater, and baggy pants drooping over well-worn slippers. His thick white hair sprouted up stiffly in a dozen different directions. The man peered at him over the rims of large square glasses.
"Mr. Wainwright?" Anton asked.
"Yes," he said. He extended his hand. "And you're Anton Sikorsky?"
"Of course," he said. Anton stepped forward a little, took his hand. "Come in, don't let cold air in house. Drafty as hell. Americans know nothing about drafts."
Benjamin stepped into the foyer and Anton shut the door behind him. The layout was as typical as the house's facade: a staircase extended upward from the foyer, with a narrow hallway running to its left, back to what Benjamin knew would be the kitchen. To the left out of the foyer was a drawing room, and it was into this room that Anton showed him.
The first thing Benjamin noticed were the books.
Everywhere.
Not only on the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves but also stacked on a large round table in the middle of the room. Here and there on the floor were more stacks, some of them tilting precariously, as though the slightest nudge would send them toppling over.
Benjamin had to thread his way carefully around the towers of books, wending his way to an open spot on a large overstuffed couch. Anton sat down in an armchair to his left. He picked up a cup of coffee from a round end table next to the chair, took a long, loud slurp, and then looked again at Benjamin over the tops of his glasses. But Benjamin noticed he was looking not at him, but rather at Wolfe's briefcase perched on his lap.
"So, Mr. Wainwright," Anton began. "How can old fart like me help smart guy like Sam Wolfe?" He smiled. Then he seemed to remember himself. "Oh, and would you like coffee? Sorry I didn't ask sooner. Afraid my manners are a little dull. Ever since my wife died, things around here," he waved his free hand at the piles of books everywhere, "go to hell."
Benjamin shook his head. "I've had quite a long drive," he said, "and a lot of coffee."
"Something else?" asked Anton. "Think I have prune juice. Maybe even orange juice. I will see." Anton set the coffee down, began to stand up, grunting as he did so.
"No, no." Benjamin waved for him to sit down. "I'm fine, really."
"Um-hm," said Anton, sitting down. He looked again at the briefcase. "You have something so important in there, you can't put it down?"
Benjamin looked down at it. "Well…" Now that he was here, Benjamin had no idea how or where to begin. "Mr. Sikorsky-"
"Anton."
"Anton… I don't know how long it's been since you've spoken with Mr. Wolfe, but-"
"Excuse me," Anton interrupted. He shifted in the chair, leaned forward. "Sam sends you to me, but doesn't mention our last conversation?" He looked directly into Benjamin's eyes. "Also, he doesn't call to say even 'boo' to this old friend, Anton, the only person can help you? And you come, I think driving maybe all night, by your red eyes?"
Benjamin looked at him, said nothing.
Anton leaned back, exhaled. "How bad trouble Sam in this time?"
"He may be dead," Benjamin said.
Anton nodded. "Told him many times, too fond of whiskey. Drink vodka, I told him. Enough of it, can't hurt you."
Benjamin realized he was joking. But then he turned serious.
"Last time I talked to Sam, almost year ago. Right after his wife died. My wife died too, three years ago now. She never tolerate this," he waved about the room. "Anyway, we commiserate. Told him was worried about him."
"It wasn't anything like that," Benjamin said. "What happened, I mean."
Anton nodded. "But still, you have his briefcase."
Benjamin looked down. "But how do you know this isn't mine?" he asked.
Anton smiled. "Two things," he said. "One, I think if it yours, you not so protective. And two," he pointed at the front, "initials are SCW. Samuel Clement Wolfe, yes? Anyway, not BW."
Benjamin smiled. He made a decision. He was simply too exhausted to be coy with Anton any longer.
He opened the briefcase and took out Fletcher's laptop. Carefully pushing aside some of the books on the oval coffee table in front of him, he lifted its top and pressed the On button. While the computer started up, Benjamin began talking.
"Samuel has been working for the Foundation again, but just since last Friday. I was called out there to help him. Well, actually not him, but Jeremy Fletcher, the man who wrote this program. It took us a while to even get into the program because Dr. Fletcher had left some… security provisions…"
"Left?" asked Anton. "Why past tense?"
In for a penny, thought Benjamin. "Jeremy Fletcher's dead, Mr. Sikorsky. Samuel was called out to the Foundation to investigate his death. Apparently they suspected he'd leaked sensitive information to someone. Once I was there, well, Samuel sort of commandeered me to help him out."
Anton took all this in without any reaction. "And how you help? You said you're historian, not computer guy."
"That's… complicated. My area is Colonial American history. Jeremy's work somehow became connected to… well, apparently he was interested in a Reverend Bainbridge, who had something to do, perhaps, with King Philip's War, and…"
Benjamin stopped, aware he was babbling. His fatigue was beginning to show.
"All right, never mind," said Anton. "Tell me about Dr. Fletcher's work, who you call Jeremy."
This guy doesn't miss much, thought Benjamin. "We were friends, back in college."
"Again, fine. Now, program?"
"Well… Samuel thought it looked like nuclear war game theory. But he said it was on a level far above his expertise. He said he wished he could show the program to you, that perhaps you'd have a better idea what it was all about."
He entered the TEACUP password, then rotated the laptop so Anton could see the files displayed.
"This is it," he said. "It's called TEACUP, for-"
"Text Entry, Analysis, Conversion and Utilization Program," finished Anton. "Told you, I know Fletcher's work. Been working on program for years."
Benjamin leaned back, sighed. "I think I came to the right place," he said.
"Maybe," Anton said. He rose from his chair, came over to the coffee table, and, with some effort, squatted down in front of the computer.
"What is files?" he said, pointing to the list on the screen.
"Well, that's one of the things I'm hoping you can tell me. Samuel opened some of them, looked at them. But that's when he said he wasn't certain what it all meant."
"Hm," Anton said, scanning down the list of files. Benjamin noticed a sudden glint of recognition in Anton's eyes when he got to the top of the rightmost list.
"You recognize these?" he asked.
"Maybe," Anton said. He stood up, sighing again. "No way to do work." He looked down at Benjamin. "You look like hell," he said.
Benjamin rubbed at his eyes. "I've been driving all night. If I could just-"
"Take nap," Anton said.
He set his coffee down, picked up a stack of books from the couch, set it on the floor-where it promptly tipped over. He grunted, pushed them aside with his foot.
"Here, on couch. Stretch out. I'll get you blanket." He leaned down and put his hands on the computer, then looked at Benjamin. "All right I take this upstairs, to study?"
Benjamin looked around, nodded. "I guess," he said.
"Good." Anton picked up the computer. "Go on, lay down. I'll be back in minute with blanket. Give me hour or so, see if I can read the leaves of this teacup." He smiled down at Benjamin.
Benjamin suddenly wanted very much to trust Anton Sikorsky; to turn the whole mystery over to him, to fade into unconsciousness, hopefully to awaken to answers and clarity-and perhaps the news that Wolfe was alive.
He leaned his head back against the arm of the couch, and by the time Anton came downstairs with a large, thick comforter, he was already sound asleep.