Riffing Brown: Installment Four

The following excerpt is from the second chapter of Angels and Demons. I was going to shift it to Philip Pullman for a while, but...this is a lot more fun. Riffing Pullman is just, well...depressing. Riffing Brown, on the other hand, is entertaining. My comments in red as usual.

"Do I have your attention now?" the man's voice said when Langdon finally answered the line. "I'm your biggest fan. Can I have your autograph?"

"Yes, sir, you damn well do. See how emphatic I am? I used the word 'damn'! That makes it emphatic! You want to explain yourself?"

"I tried to tell you before." The voice was rigid, mechanical. "I'm a physicist. I run a research facility. We've had a murder. You saw the body." Did he sound anything like James Earl Jones?

"How did you find me?" Langdon could barely focus. His mind was racing from the image on the FAX. Sit down, dear. Maybe put your head on a pillow. Just relax. Now, tell me about your father...

"I already told you. The World Wide Web. I say the World Wide Web because 'internet' would be too easy, therefore I am intelligent! The site for your book, The Art of the Illuminati."

Langdon tried to gather his thoughts. His book was virtually unknown in mainstream literary circles, but it had developed quite a following on-line. Err...shouldn't that be online?... Nonetheless, the caller's claim still made no sense. "That page has no contact information," Langdon challenged. He challenged? What did he challenge? Is that a legitimate word use? "I'm certain of it."

"I have people here at the lab very adept at extracting user information from the web." "We know you, and if you EVER want to see Toto again, you will pay us the sum of five thousand dollars and never write another book."

Langdon was skeptical. "Sounds like your lab knows a lot about the web."

"We should," the man fired back. "We invented it." ...AL GORE?...

Something in the man's voice told Langdon he was not joking. It really is! It's Al Gore, the King of Conspiracies himself!

"I must see you," "I just can't live without you, Langy!" the caller insisted. "This is not a matter we can discuss on the phone. (even though we already have...) My lab is only an hour's flight from Boston."

Langdon stood in the dim light of his study and analyzed the FAX in his hand. The image was overpowering, possibly representing the epigraphical find of the century, a decade of his research confirmed in a single symbol. Now...you don't think that's taking it a little far? I mean, heck, any regular joe can get a cow-brand....

"It's urgent," the voice pressured. No, the man pressured Langdon to come. The voice did not pressure anything...

Langdon's eyes were locked on the brand. Illuminati, he read over and over. His work had always been based on the symbolic equivalent of fossils... ancient documents and historical hearsay... but this image before him was today. Present tense. He felt like a paleontologist coming face to face with a living dinosaur. CHOMP!

"I've taken the liberty of sending a plane for you," the voice said. "It will be in Boston in twenty minutes." "Do not look at anything. Avert your eyes. If you see anything, we will kill you."

Langdon felt his mouth go dry. "Dang, I knew I shouldn't have had that zinfandel!" An hour's flight…

"Please forgive my presumption," the voice said. "I need you here." Aw, they're eloping!

Langdon looked again at the FAX... an ancient myth confirmed in black and white. We know! The implications were frightening. I know, I know! He gazed absently through the bay window. The first hint of dawn was sifting through the birch trees in his back yard, but the view looked somehow different this morning. As an odd combination of fear and exhilaration settled over him, Langdon knew he had no choice.

"You win," he said. "Tell me where to meet the plane."

--

Thousands of miles away, two men were meeting. The chamber was dark. Medieval. Stone.

"Benvenuto," the man in charge said. He was seated in the shadows, out of sight. "Were you successful?" Ooh, Italian! How smart, how sexy! I just want to keep reading, because there's ITALIAN, and that makes the book intelligent!

"Si," the dark figure replied. "Perfectamente." His words were as hard as the rock walls. Ow! Darn, I really hate it when words of stone hit me in the face!

"And there will be no doubt who is responsible?"

"None."

"Superb. Do you have what I asked for?"

The killer's eyes glistened, black like oil. My olive oil isn't black... He produced a heavy, electronic device and set it on the table. Aunt Martha's ventilator.

The man in the shadows seemed pleased. "You have done well."

"Serving the brotherhood is an honor," the killer said. Of course it is....

"Phase two begins shortly. Get some rest. Tonight we change the world." Hooooope, and chaaaaange...

--

A round-faced man in a blue flight suit emerged from behind the building. "Robert Langdon?" he called. The man's voice was friendly. He had an accent Langdon couldn't place. ...why is his accent relevant?

"That's me," Langdon said, locking his car.

"Perfect timing," the man said. "I've just landed. Follow me, please."

As they circled the building, Langdon felt tense. He was not accustomed to cryptic phone calls and secret rendezvous with strangers. Not knowing what to expect he had donned his usual classroom attire... a pair of chinos, a turtleneck, and a Harris Tweed suit jacket. Ooh, he's sooo attractive! I just want to keep reading, because Langy wears Harris Tweed! As they walked, he thought about the FAX in his jacket pocket, still unable to believe the image it depicted. Then why on earth are you getting on the plane?

The pilot seemed to sense Langdon's anxiety. "Flying's not a problem for you, is it, sir?" "Because if it is, I'll be obligated to conk you on the noggin and stuff you in the cargo hold."

"Not at all," Langdon replied. Branded corpses are a problem for me. Flying I can handle. I wonder how he feels about tattoos?

The man led Langdon the length of the hangar. They rounded the corner onto the runway.

Langdon stopped dead in his tracks and gaped at the aircraft parked on the tarmac. "We're riding in that?" "A giant hotdog with a side-dish of beans?"

The man grinned. "Like it?"

Langdon stared a long moment. "Like it? What the hell is it?" "I already told you, Mr. Langdon. It's a giant hotdog. It has airlift because there's a giant that sits in the rear and eats beans constantly, using the gaseous products of beans to--"
NO!
What? Who are you?
Your conscience, genius. That's going too far.
But--
TOO FAR.
Pfff....okay...

The craft before them was enormous. It was vaguely reminiscent of the Space Shuttle except that the top had been shaved off leaving it perfectly flat. Parked there on the runway, it resembled a colossal wedge. Of cheese? Langdon's first impression was that he must be dreaming. The vehicle looked as airworthy as a Buick. Boxy, but good? The wings were practically non-existent... just two stubby fins on the rear of the fuselage. A pair of dorsal guiders rose out of the aft section. The rest of the plane was hull... about 200 feet from front to back... no windows, nothing but hull. It sounds like a pencil eraser.

"250,000 kilos fully fueled," the pilot offered like a father bragging about his newborn. "Runs on slush hydrogen. The shell's a titanium matrix with silicon carbide fibers. She packs a 20:1 thrust/weight ratio; most jets run at 7:1. The director must be in one helluva a hurry to see you. He doesn't usually send the big boy." Uh-huh. Maybe this is 'accurate', but coming from Mr. "99-percent-is-true" Brown who said Copernicus was murdered and Galileo was part of the Illuminati or something....

"This thing flies?" Langdon said. Yeah--propelled by hot air! HAHAHAHAH!
...Celestine...
...sorry.

The pilot smiled. "Oh yeah." He led Langdon across the tarmac toward the plane. "Looks kind of startling, I know, but you better get used to it. In five years, all you'll see are these babies... HSCT's... High Speed Civil Transports. Our lab's one of the first to own one."

Must be one hell of a lab, Langdon thought. Langdon sure does seem to like using hell a lot.

"This one's a prototype of the Boeing X-33," the pilot continued, "but there are dozens of others... the National Aero Space Plane, the Russians have Scramjet, the Brits have HOTOL. The future's here, it's just taking some time to get to the public sector. You can kiss conventional jets good-bye." Sure we can.

Langdon looked up warily at the craft. "I think I'd prefer a conventional jet." Ok. Here's a Tomcat. The pilot's a really ticked-off Catholic Marine, by the way...

The pilot motioned up the gangplank. "This way, please, Mr. Langdon. Watch your step." WALK THE PLANK, ARRRR!

Minutes later, Langdon was seated inside the empty cabin. The pilot buckled him into the front row and disappeared toward the front of the aircraft. Ok, here you go little wangy-poo! Make sure to keep your belt on, kay?

The cabin itself looked surprisingly like a wide-body commercial airliner. The only exception was that it had no windows, which made Langdon uneasy. He had been haunted his whole life by a mild case of claustrophobia... the vestige of a childhood incident he had never quite overcome. He's haunted, but it's only a mild case.

Langdon's aversion to closed spaces was by no means debilitating, but it had always frustrated him. It manifested itself in subtle ways. Like avoiding public restrooms. He avoided enclosed sports like racquetball or squash, as well as port-a-johns, bunk beds and pyramids and he gladly paid a small fortune for his airy, high-ceilinged Victorian home even though economical faculty housing was readily available. Langdon had often suspected his attraction to the art world as a young boy sprang from his love of museums' wide open spaces. ...I'm guessing he hasn't been in too many crowded museums.

--

On a busy European street, the killer serpentined through a crowd. (What, are we just going to call him "the killer" forever and ever? Plus, I "don't think that word means what you think it means"--serpentined?) He was a powerful man. Dark and potent. Deceptively agile. His muscles still felt hard from the thrill of his meeting. Aww, little killer has a man-crush...


It went well, he told himself. Although his employer had never revealed his face, the killer felt honored to be in his presence. He's a horribly disfigured genius who couldn't possibly find an opera house to lurk in, so he settled for a physics lab and has now fallen desperately in love with a young particle physicist while listening to her recite formulas. Had it really been only fifteen days since his employer had first made contact? The killer still remembered every word of that call… ("OHMIGOSH he spoke to me! Can you believe it? He spoke to me!")

"My name is Janus," the caller had said. "We are kinsmen of a sort. We share an enemy. I hear your skills are for hire."

"It depends whom you represent," the killer replied.

The caller told him.

"Is this your idea of a joke?" No, if it was a joke he would've handed you a pair of binoculars with ink on the rims.

"You have heard our name, I see," the caller replied. "Our name....sss, precious, yes, our name...."

"Of course. The brotherhood is legendary." Legendary...like his brai--
Celestine!
...sorry...

"And yet you find yourself doubting I am genuine." "Well, I am--100% genuine mad scientist in the longstanding tradition ranging from Dr. Frankenstein to Jekyll to TV's Frank!"

"Everyone knows the brothers have faded to dust." Sunbathing vampires?

"A devious ploy. The most dangerous enemy is that which no one fears." Russian roulette, anyone?

The killer was skeptical. "The brotherhood endures?"

"Deeper underground than ever before. Our roots infiltrate everything you see…even the sacred fortress of our most sworn enemy." Hey, look, I TOLD you to never come near my house again...I can't believe your roots are infiltrating my sacred fortress!

"Impossible. They are invulnerable." *yawn* sure they are.

"Our reach is far." Saruman's arm has grown long ind--whoops.

"No one's reach is that far."

"Very soon, you will believe. An irrefutable demonstration of the brotherhood's power has already transpired. A single act of treachery and proof." *yawn* hey, where's the restroom?

"What have you done?"

The caller told him.

The killer's eyes went wide. "An impossible task."

The next day, newspapers around the globe carried the same headline. The killer became a believer. "Now IIIIIIIII'M a believerrrrr!"

Now, fifteen days later, the killer's faith had solidified beyond the shadow of a doubt. The brotherhood endures, he thought. Tonight they will surface to reveal their power.

As he made his way through the streets, his black eyes gleamed with foreboding. One of the most covert and feared fraternities ever to walk the earth had called on him for service. Delta-Phi-Kappa, just down from Domino's. They have chosen wisely, he thought. "Our pizza is better, and cheaper, too!" His reputation for secrecy was exceeded only by that of his deadliness.

So far, he had served them nobly. And delivered their pizza in thirty minutes or less! He had made his kill and delivered the item to Janus as requested. Now, it was up to Janus to use his power to ensure the item's placement. Yeah, the catheter goes right up the--
CELESTINE.
You're no fun...
That's very improper.
What? Constipation is a serious problem in modern day society!
Maybe, but you don't need to bring it up when talking about evil cults.
Go away.
Well, folks, I don't know what to say. I can't be sure why my conscience has decided to join in, but it's really putting a cramp in my style. Let me go deal with it, and maybe I'll do something fun in the near future.