'You're hurting me.' Robin wrenched her arm out of Foyle's grasp.
'Sorry. I lose control when I think about Vorga. Will you help me find Vorga and your family?'
'I hate you,' Robin burst out. 'I despise you. You're rotten. You destroy everything you touch. Some day I'll pay you back.'
'But we work together from New Year's to All Fools?'
'We work together.'
CHAPTER NINE
On New Year's Eve, Geoffrey Fourmyle of Ceres made his onslaught on society. He appeared first in Canberra at the Government House ball, half an hour before midnight. This was a highly formal affair, bursting with color and pageantry, for it was the custom at formats for society to wear the evening dress that had been fashionable the year its clan was founded or its trademark patented.
Thus, the Morses (Telephones and Telegraph) wore nineteenth-century frock coats and the women wore Victorian hoop-skirts. The Skodas (Powder and Guns) harked back to the late eighteenth century, wearing Regency tights and crinolines. The daring Peenemundes (Rockets and Reactors), dating from the 1920's wore tuxedos, and the women unashamedly revealed legs, arms and necks in the decolletee of antique Worth and Mainbocher gowns.
Fourmyle of Ceres appeared in evening clothes, very modern and very black, relieved only by a white sunburst on his shoulder, the trademark of the Ceres clan. With him was Robin Wednesbury in a glittering white gown, her slender waist tight in whalebone, the bustle of the gown accentuating her long straight back and graceful step.
The black and white contrast was so arresting that an orderly was sent to check the sunburst trademark in the Almanack of Peerages and Patents. He returned with the news that it was of the Ceres Mining Company, organized in 2250 for the exploitation of the mineral resources of Ceres, Pallos and Vesta.
The resources had never manifested themselves and the House of Ceres had gone into eclipse but had never become extinct. Apparently it was now being revived.
'Fourmyle? The clown?'
'Yes. The Four Mile Circus. Everybody's talking about him.'
'Is that the same man?'
'Couldn't be. He looks human.' Society clustered around Fourmyle, curious but wary.
'Here they come,' Foyle muttered to Robin.
'Relax. They want the light touch. They'll accept anything if it's amusing. Stay tuned.' She prompted.
'Are you that dreadful man with the circus, Fourmyle?'
'Sure you are. Smile.' She prompted.
'I am, madam. You may touch me.'
'Why, you actually seem proud. Are you proud of your bad taste?'
'The problem today is to have any taste at all.' She prompted.
'The problem today is to have any taste at all. I think I'm lucky.'
'Lucky but dreadfully indecent.'
'Indecent but not dull.'
'And dreadful but delightful. Why aren't you cavorting now?'
'I'm "under the influence", Madam.'
'Oh dear. Are you drunk? I'm Lady Shrapnel. When will you be sober again?'
'I'm under your influence, Lady Shrapnel.'
'You wicked young man. Charles! Charles, come here and save Fourmyle. I'm ruining him.'
'That's Victor of R.C.A. Victor.' She prompted.
'Fourmyle, is it? Delighted. What's that entourage of yours cost?'
'Tell him the truth.' She prompted.
'Forty thousand, Victor.'
'Good Lord! A week?'
'A day.'
'My God! What on earth d'you want to spend all that money for?'
'The truth!' She prompted.
'For notoriety, Victor.'
'Ha! Are you serious?'
'I told you he was wicked, Charles.'
'Damned refreshing. Klaus! Here a moment. This impudent young man is spending forty thousand a day; for notoriety, if you please.'
'Skoda of Skoda.' She prompted.
'Good evening, Fourmyle. I am much interested in this revival of the name. You are, perhaps, a cadet descendant of the original founding board of Ceres, Inc?'
'Give him the truth.' She prompted.
'No, Skoda, It's a title by purchase. I bought the company. I'm an upstart.'
'Good. Toujours audace!'
'My word, Fourmyle! You're frank.'
'Told you he was impudent. Very refreshing. There's a parcel of damned upstarts about, young man, but they don't, admit it. Elizabeth, come and meet Fourmyle of Ceres.'
'Fourmyle! I've been dying to meet you.'
'Lady Elizabeth Citroen.'
'Is it true you travel with a portable college?'
'The light touch here.' She prompted.
'A portable high school, Lady Elizabeth.'
'But why on earth, Fourmyle?'
'Oh, Madam, it's so difficult to spend money these days. We have to find the silliest excuses. If only someone would invent a new extravagance.'
'You ought to travel with a portable inventor, Fourmyle.'
'I've got one. Haven't I, Robin? But he wastes his time on perpetual motion. What I need is a resident spendthrift. Would any of your clans care to lend me a younger son?'
'Welcome, by God! And there's many a clan would pay for the privilege of unloading.'
'Isn't perpetual motion spendthrift enough for you, Fourmyle?'
'No. It's a shocking waste of money. The whole point of extravagance is to act like a fool and feel like a fool, but enjoy it. Where's the joy in perpetual motion? Is there any extravagance in entropy? Millions for nonsense but not one cent for entropy. That's my slogan.'
They laughed and the crowd clustering around Fourmyle grew. They were delighted and amused. He was a new top. Then it was midnight, and as the great clock tolled in the New Year, the gathering prepared to jaunte with midnight around the world.
'Come with us to Java, Fourmyle. Regis Sheffield's giving a marvelous legal party. We're going to play "Sober The Judge".'
'Hong Kong, Fourmyle.'
'Tokyo, Fourmyle. It's raining in Hong Kong. Come to Tokyo and bring your circus.'
'Thank you, no. Shanghai for me. The Soviet Duomo. I promise an extravagant reward to the first one who discovers the deception of my costume. Meet you all in two hours. Ready, Robin?'
'Don't jaunte. Bad manners. Walk out. Slowly. Languor is chic. Respects to the Governor . . . To the Commissioner . . . Their Ladies . . . Bien. Don't forget to tip the attendants. Not him, idiot! That's the Lieutenant Governor. All right, you made a hit. You're accepted. Now what?'
'Now what we-came to Canberra for.'
'I thought we came for the ball'
'The ball and a man named Forrest.'
'Who's that?'
'Ben Forrest, spaceman off the Vorga. I've got three leads to the man who gave the order to let me die. Three names. A cook in Rome named Poggi; a quack in Shanghai named Orel; and this man, Forrest. This is a combined operation . . . society and search. Understand?'
'I understand.'
'We've got two hours to rip Forrest open. D'you know the co-ordinates of the Aussie Cannery? The Company Town?'
'I don't want any part of your Vorga revenge. I'm searching for my family.'
'This is a combined operation . . . every way,' he said with such detached savagery that she winced and at once jaunted. When Foyle arrived in his tent in the Four-Mile Circus on Jervis Beach, she was already changing into travel clothes. Foyle looked at her. Although he forced her to live in his tent for security reasons, he had never touched her again. Robin caught his glance, stopped changing and waited.
He shook his head. 'That's all finished.'
'How interesting. You've given up rape?'
'Get dressed,' he said, controlling himself. 'Tell them they've got two hours to get the camp up to Shanghai.'
It was twelve-thirty when Foyle and Robin arrived at the front office of the Aussie Cannery company town. They applied for identification tags and were greeted by the mayor himself.
'Happy New Year,' he caroled. 'Happy! Happy! Happy! Visiting? A pl
easure to drive you around. Permit me.'
He bundled them into a lush helicopter and took off. 'Lots of visitors tonight. Ours is a friendly town. Friendliest company town in the world.'
The plane circled giant buildings. 'That's our ice palace . . . Swimming baths on the left . . . Big dome is the ski-jump. Snow all year 'round . . . Tropical gardens under that glass roof. Palms, parrot, orchids, fruit. There's our market . . . theatre . . . got our own broadcasting company, too. 3D-SS. Take a look at the football stadium. Two of our boys made All-American this year. Turner at Right Rockne and Kowalsky at Left Heffilfinger.'
'Do tell,' Foyle murmured.
'Yessir, we've got everything. Everything. You don't have to jaunte around the world looking for fun. Aussie Cannery brings the world to you. Our town's a little universe. Happiest little universe in the world.'
'Having absentee problems, I see.'
The mayor refused to falter in his sales-pitch. 'Look down at the streets. See those bikes? Motor-cycles? Cars? We can afford more luxury transportation per capita than any other town on earth. Look at those homes. Mansions. Our people are rich and happy. We keep 'em rich and happy.'
'But do you keep them?'
'What d'you mean? Of course we -'
'You can tell us the truth. We're not job prospects. Do you keep them?'
'Christ, we can't keep 'em more than six months,' the mayor groaned. 'It's a hell of a headache, Mac. We give 'em everything but we can't hold on to 'em. They get the wanderlust and jaunte. Absenteeism's cut our production by twelve per cent. We can't hold on to steady labor.'
'Nobody can.'
'There ought to be a law. Forrest, you said? Right here.'
He landed them before a Swiss chalet set in an acre of gardens and took off, mumbling to himself. Foyle and Robin stepped before the door of the house, waiting for the monitor to pick them up and announce them. Instead, the door flashed red, and a white skull and crossbones appeared on it. A canned voice spoke:
'WARNING. THIS RESIDENCE IS MANTRAPPED BY THE LETHAL DEFENSE CORPORATION OF SWEDEN. R: 77-23. YOU HAVE BEEN LEGALLY NOTIFIED.'
'What the hell?' Foyle muttered. 'On New Year's Eve? Friendly fella. Let's try the back.'
They walked around the chalet, pursued by the skull and crossbones flashing at intervals, and the canned warning. At one side, they saw the top of a cellar window brightly illuminated and heard the muffled chant of voices: 'The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want . . .
'Cellar-Christians!'
Foyle exclaimed. He and Robin peered through the window. Thirty worshippers of assorted faiths were celebrating the New Year with a combined and highly illegal service. The twenty-fourth century had not yet abolished God, but it had abolished organized religion.
'No wonder the house is man-trapped,' Foyle said. 'Filthy practices like that. Look, they've got a priest and a rabbi, and that thing behind them is a crucifix.'
'Did you ever stop to think what swearing is?' Robin asked quietly. 'You say "Jesus" and "Jesus Christ", you know what that is?'
'Just swearing, that's all. Like "Ouch" or "Pshaw'
'No, it's religion. You don't know it, but there are two thousand years of meaning behind words like that'
'This is no time for dirty talk,' Foyle said impatiently. 'Save it for later. Come on.'
The rear of the chalet was a solid wall of glass, the picture window of a dimly lit, empty living-room.
'Down on your face,' Foyle ordered. 'I'm going in.'
Robin lay prone on the marble patio. Foyle triggered his body, accelerated into a lightning blur, and smashed a hole in the glass wall. Far down on the sound spectrum he heard dull concussions. They were shots. Quick projectiles laced towards him. Foyle dropped to the floor and tuned his ears, sweeping from low bass to supersonic until at last he picked up the hum of the Man-Trap control mechanism. He turned his head gently, pin-pointed the location by binaural D/F, wove in through the stream of shots and demolished the mechanism. He decelerated.
'Come in, quick!'
Robin joined him in the living-room, trembling. The Cellar-Christians were pouring up into the house somewhere, emitting the sounds of martyrs.
'Wait here,' Foyle grunted. He accelerated, blurred through the house, located the Cellar-Christians in poses of frozen flight, and sorted through them. He returned to Robin and decelerated.
'None of them is Forrest,' he reported. 'Maybe he's upstairs.
The back way, while they're going out the front. Come on!'
They raced up the back stairs. On the landing they paused to take bearings.
'Have to work fast,' Foyle muttered. 'Between the shots and the religion riot, the world and his wife'll be jaunting around asking questions -' He broke off. A low mewling sound came from a door at the head of the stairs. Foyle sniffed.
'Analogue!' he exclaimed. 'Must be Forrest. How about that? Religion in the cellar and dope upstairs.'
'What are you talking about?'
'I'll explain later. In here. I only hope he isn't on a gorilla kick.'
Foyle went through the door like a diesel tractor. They were in a large, bare room. A heavy rope was suspended from the ceiling. A naked man was entwined with the rope midway in the air. He squirmed up and down the rope, emitting a mewling sound and a musky odor.
'Python,' Foyle said. 'That's a break. Don't go near him. He'll mash your bones if he touches you.'
Voices below began to call: 'Forrest! What's all the shooting? Happy New Year, Forrest! Where in hell's the celebration?'
'Here they come,' Foyle grunted. 'Have to jaunte him out of here. Meet you back at the beach. Go.'
He whipped a knife out of his pocket, cut the rope, swung the squirming man to his back and jaunted. Robin was on the empty Jervis beach a moment before him. Foyle arrived with the squirming man oozing over his neck and shoulders like a python, crushing him in a terrifying embrace. The red stigmata suddenly bursts out on Foyle's face.
'Sinbad,' he said in a strangled voice. 'Old Man of the Sea. Quick, girl! Right pockets. Three over. Two down. Stingampoule. Let him have it anywh -'
His voice was choked off.
Robin opened the pocket, found a packet of glass beads and took them out. Each bead had a bee-sting end. She thrust the sting of an ampoule into the writhing man's neck. He collapsed.
Foyle shook him off and arose from the sand. 'Christ!' he muttered, massaging his throat. He took a deep breath. 'Blood and bowels. Control,' he said, resuming his air of detached calm. The scarlet tattooing faded from his face.
'What was all that horror?' Robin asked.
'Analogue. Psychiatric dope for psychotics. Illegal. A twitch has to release himself somehow; revert back to the primitive. He identifies with a particular kind of animal; gorilla, grizzly, brood bull, wolf . . . Takes the dope and turns into the animal he admires. Forrest was queer for snakes, seems as if.'
'How do you know all this? 'Told you I've been studying . . . preparing for Vorga. This is one of the things I learned Show you something else I've learned, if you're not chicken-livered. How to bring a twitch out of Analogue.'
Foyle opened another pocket in his battle coveralls and got to work on Forrest. Robin watched for a moment, then uttered a horrified cry, turned and walked to the edge of the water. She stood, staring blindly at the surf and the stars, until the mewling and the twisting ceased and Foyle called to her.
'You can come back now.'
Robin returned to find a shattered creature seated upright on the beach gazing at Foyle with dull, sober eyes.
'You're Forrest?
'Who the hell are you?'
'You're Ben Forrest, Leading Spaceman. Formerly aboard the Presteign Vorga.'
Forrest cried out in terror.
'You were aboard the Vorga on September 16th, 2336.'
The man sobbed and shook his head.
'On September sixteen you passed a wreck. Out near the asteroid belt. Wreck of the Nomad, your sister ship. She signaled for help. Vorga pas
sed her by. Left her to drift and die. Why did Vorga pass her by?'
Forrest began to scream hysterically.
'Who gave the order to pass her by?'
'Jesus, no! No! No!'
'The records are all gone from the Bo'ness and Uig files. Someone got to them before me. Who was that? Who was aboard Vorga? Who shipped with you? I want officers and crew. Who was in command?'
'No,' Forrest screamed. 'No!'
Foyle held a sheaf of banknotes before the hysterical man's face. 'I'll pay for the information. Fifty thousand. Analogue for the rest of your life. Who gave the order to let me die, Forrest? Who?'
The man smote the banknotes from Foyle's hand, leaped up and ran down the beach. Foyle tackled him at the edge of the surf. Forrest fell headlong, his face in the water. Foyle held him there.
'Who commanded Vorga, Forrest? Who gave the order?'
'You're drowning him!' Robin cried.
'Let him suffer a little. Water's easier than vacuum. I suffered for six months. Who gave the order, Forrest?'
The man bubbled and choked. Foyle lifted his head out of the water. 'What are you? Loyal? Crazy? Scared? Your kind would sell out for five thousand. I'm offering fifty. Fifty thousand for information, you son of a bitch, or you die slow and hard.'
The tattooing appeared on Foyle's face. He forced Forrest's head back into the water and held the struggling man. Robin tried to pull him off.
'You're murdering him!'
Foyle turned his terrifying face on Robin. 'Get your hands off me, bitch! Who was aboard with you, Forrest? Who gave the order? Why?'
Forrest twisted his head out of the water. 'Twelve of us on Vorga,' he screamed. 'Christ save me! There was me and Kemp-' He jerked spasmodically and sagged. Foyle pulled his body out of the surf 'Go on. You and who? Kemp? Who else? Talk.'
There was no response. Foyle examined the body. 'Dead,' he growled.
'Oh my God! My God!'
'One lead shot to hell. Just when he was opening up. What a damned break.'
He took a deep breath and drew calm about him like an iron cloak. The tattooing disappeared from his face. He adjusted his watch for 120 degrees east longitude.