So? Jesus Pietro dumped his cold coffee, into a wastebasket, poured a fresh cup, and sipped.
A flicking shadow somewhere at the corner of his eye. A noise. Someone was in the room. The cup jumped in his hand, searing his lip. He put it down fast and looked around.
He went back to the dossier.
Matthew Keller. What idiot whim had made him ask for this? Keller senior was dead. Crippled, crawling, he’d gone off the void edge split seconds before—
“Castro.”
Jesus Pietro looked up with a start.
He looked down. Treatment reports…Not good, but no disaster. Too many people had been injured in the mass escape, but some could be saved. Luckily the organ banks were full. And could be filled again, from the vivarium, once the Surgery Section found time. Why did everything have to happen at once?
“Castro!”
Jesus Pietro’s chin jerked up—and he caught himself before his eyes followed. He’d done this once before, hadn’t he? There’d been a noise…and someone had called his name…and what the Mist Demons was someone doing unannounced in Jesus Pietro’s private office? He let his eyes travel to the edge of the desk—
Crew clothing.
But it was rumpled and dirty, and it didn’t fit, and the hands that rested flat on his desk had dirty short fingernails. A colonist in crew clothing, for sure. In Jesus Pietro’s office. Unannounced. He’d gone past Miss Lauessen, unannounced.
“You.”
“That’s right. Where is she?”
“You’re Matthew Keller.”
“Yes.”
“How did you get in here?” Somehow he kept the tremor out of his voice, and was proud of it.
“None of your business. Where is she?”
“Who?”
“Don’t give me that. Where’s Polly?”
“I can’t tell you that. Or anything else,” said Jesus Pietro. He kept his eyes fixed on the man’s stolen gold belt buckle.
At the periphery of his vision he saw two big, none-too-clean hands reach down to his own right hand. His visitor leaned heavily on that hand, and when Jesus Pietro belatedly tried to withdraw it, he couldn’t. He saw his visitor take hold of his middle finger and bend it back.
The pain was shocking. Jesus Pietro’s mouth came wide open, and he looked up to plead…
He was reaching for Polly Tournquist’s folder when agony struck his hand. He snatched it back as if trying to get it off a hot stove. Reflex. The middle finger stuck out at right angles to the knuckles.
Mist Demons, it hurt! How the blazes had he—
“Well, Castro?”
He remembered enough, barely enough, not to look up. Someone or something was in this room, something or someone with the power to make people forget. He made a logical connection and said, “You.”
“Right. Where’s Polly Tournquist?”
“You. Matthew Keller. So you came for me.”
“Let’s not play games. Where’s Polly?”
“Were you in the car that attacked the Hospital? The one that dove straight down—”
“Yes.”
“Then how—”
“Shut up, Castro. Tell me where Polly is. Now. Is she alive?”
“You’ll get no information from me. How did you get back from the void?”
“I flew back.”
“I mean the first time.”
“Castro, I could break every finger in both your hands. Now where’s Polly? Is she dead?”
“Would I talk if you did?”
There was hesitation. Then two arms converged on his right hand. Jesus Pietro yelped with the pain and reached with clawed fingers for a pair of eyes…
He was halfway through a stack of reports when agony bit into his hand. He found two fingers of his right hand bent back at right angles to the palm. With his teeth clenched hard on a scream, Jesus Pietro turned on the intercom. “Get me the doctor.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Just get me the—” His eyes caught a flash of movement. Someone in the office with him!
“You’re right,” said a voice. “I can’t torture anything out of you.”
Faint, fading memories told him not to look up. He said, “You.”
“Go fly a bicycle.”
“Matthew Keller?”
Silence.
“Answer me, damn you! How did you get back?”
Two hands slapped together on Jesus Pietro’s right hand. His whole face clamped down on the scream, and Jesus Pietro snatched up his stunner and looked wildly for a target.
He looked up again when the doctor entered.
“No point in replacing them,” said the doctor. “They’re only dislocated.” And he deadened Jesus Pietro’s arm, set the fingers, and sprinted them. “How the Mist Demons did you do it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? You dislocated two fingers, and you can’t quite recall—”
“Get off my back. I said I can’t remember what happened to my hand. But I think that infernal ghost, Matthew Keller, must have had something to do with it.”
The doctor gave him a very peculiar look. And left.
Jesus Pietro looked ruefully at his right arm, sprinted and dangling from a sling. Oh, fine. And he genuinely couldn’t remember anything about it.
Which was why he kept thinking about Matthew Keller.
But why did he keep thinking about Polly Tournquist?
It was time and past time for the next phase of her treatment. But surely she could wait? Of course she could.
He tried his coffee. Too cool. He poured it back into the pot and started fresh.
His arm felt like dead meat.
Why did he keep thinking about Polly Tournquist?
“Phut!” He stood up clumsily, because of his bound arm. “Miss Lauessen,” he told the intercom, “get me two guards. I’m going over to the Planck.”
“Will do.”
He was reaching for the stunner on his desk when something caught his eye. It was the dossier for Matthew Keller, senior. A crude drawing defaced its yellow cover.
Two open arcs, joined, in black ink. Three small closed loops beneath.
The bleeding heart. It certainly hadn’t been there before.
Jesus Pietro opened the folder. He could smell his own fear, and feel it, in the cool perspiration that soaked his shirt. As if he’d been afraid for hours.
Front and side views. Blue eyes, yellow hair, skin beginning to puff out with age…
Something stirred somewhere in Jesus Pietro’s mind. For just a moment the face in the folder became younger. Its expression changed slightly, so that it seemed both frightened and angry. There was blood soaking into its collar, and a piece freshly bitten from its ear.
“Your guards are here, sir.”
“Thank you,” said Jesus Pietro. He took one last look at the dead man and closed the folder. He put the stunner in his pocket before he left.
“I wish we could warn Laney,” said Harry Kane. “This changes everything.”
“You wouldn’t even know what to tell her yet. Here, take this out.” Mrs. Hancock put a steaming pitcher of hot cider on a tray, added four mugs.
They were in the kitchen. Hood was in the living room with Millard Parlette. Parlette, leaning on Jay Hood, had managed to stagger into the living room and into an armchair.
It had seemed a good time to call a break.
The wind screamed against black windows. To four conspirators in front of a convincing fire, drinking hot spiced cider against the cold, the living room seemed a haven.
A temporary haven.
“You’ve been thinking about this longer than we have,” said Harry. “We never dreamed the crew might compromise. Just what are you prepared to offer?”
“To start with, amnesty for the Sons of Earth, for you and whoever remains in the vivarium. That comes free. We’ll need you. Once the colonists lose faith in the crew, you’ll be the only force for law and order in the colony regions.
”
“That’ll be a switch.”
“We need to discuss three types of medical care,” said Millard Parlette. “Organic transplants, the ramrobot gifts, and minor medical treatment. You already have some access to standard drugs at the medcheck stations. We can expand those. I’m sure we can offer free access to the heartbeasts and liverbeasts and so forth. For a while your colonists will have to come up to the Hospital to get treatment with the ramrobot symbiots, but eventually we can build culture tanks in Gamma and Delta and Eta.”
“Very good. What about the organ banks?”
“Right.” Millard Parlette wrapped his arms around his narrow rib cage and stared into the fire. “I couldn’t plan for that part, because I didn’t know just what technological change was coming. What are your ideas?”
“Abolish the organ banks,” Mrs. Hancock said firmly.
“Throw away tons of organic transplant material? Dump it on the grass?”
“Yes!”
“Would you also abolish crime? The organ banks are our only way to punish thieves and murderers. There are no prisons on Mount Lookitthat.”
“Then build prisons. You’ve been killing us long enough!”
Parlette shook his head.
Harry Kane intervened. “It wouldn’t work. Look, Lydia, I know how you feel, but we couldn’t do it. If we dumped all that transplant material out, we’d have the whole Plateau against us. We can’t even abolish execution by the organ banks, partly because crime would run rampant without capital punishment, and partly because there are too many crew like Parlette, who need the banks to live. If we did that, we might as well declare war here and now.”
Lydia turned appealingly to Hood.
“I pass,” said Hood. “I think you’re all ignoring something.”
Harry said, “Oh?”
“I’m not sure yet. I’ll have to wait and see. Keep talking.”
“I don’t understand,” said Lydia. “I don’t understand any of you. What have we been fighting for? What have we been dying for? To smash the organ banks!”
“You’re overlooking something, Mrs. Hancock,” Parlette said gently. “It isn’t that the crew wouldn’t agree to that, and it isn’t that the colonists wouldn’t agree to that. They wouldn’t, of course. But I won’t let you kick in the organ banks.”
“No.” Lydia’s words dripped scorn. “You’d have to die then, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, I would. And you need me.”
“Why? What have you got for us besides your influence and your good advice?”
“A small army. I have more than one hundred lineal descendants. They’ve been prepared for this day for a very long time. Not all of them will follow me, but most will obey my orders without question. They all have hunting weapons.”
Lydia sighed, raggedly.
“We’ll do our best, Mrs. Hancock. We can’t eliminate the organ banks, but we can eliminate the injustice.”
“What we’ll have to do,” said Harry, “is establish a first-come, first-serve basis for what’s already in the banks. Whoever gets sick first—you see what I mean. Meanwhile we set up a new code of law, so that a crew stands just as much chance of getting into the banks as a colonist.”
“Don’t push too hard there, Kane. Remember, we have to satisfy both groups.”
“Phut!” said Lydia Hancock. It was hard to tell whether she was ready to cry or to start a fistfight.
They were a circle of three, leaning toward each other across the coffeetable, holding forgotten mugs. Hood sat a little back from the coffeetable, ignored, waiting for something.
“The thing is,” said Parlette, “We can make everyone equal before the law. We can do that, and get away with it, provided that there is no redistribution of property. Do you agree to that?”
“Not completely.”
“Look at the logic. Everyone is equal in the courts. A crime is a crime. But the more property a man has, the less likely he is to want to commit a crime. It gives the crew something to protect, and it gives the colonist something to gain.”
“It makes sense, yes. But there are a few things we’ll want.”
“Go ahead.”
“Our own electrical power sources.”
“Fine. We’ll supply it free until we can build plants on Gamma and Delta. We can put hydraulic plants along the Muddy and Long Fall rivers.”
“Good. We want free access to the organ banks guaranteed.”
“That’s a problem. An organ bank is like any other bank. You can’t take out more than you put in. We’ll have less condemned criminals and a lot more sick colonists to take care of.”
Hood had his chair tilted back on two legs, with his feet on the edge of the table. His eyes were half closed, as if he was dreaming pleasant daydreams.
“Lotteries, then; fair lotteries. And heavy research into alloplasty, financed by the crew.”
“Why the crew?”
“You’ve got all the money.”
“We can work out a graduated tax. Anything else?”
“There are a lot of unjust laws. We’ll want to build houses as we see fit. No restrictions on the clothes we wear. Free travel. The right to buy machinery, any machinery, at the same price a crew pays. We’ll want to put some solid restrictions on Implementation. For—”
“Why? They’ll be police. They’ll be enforcing your laws.”
“Parlette, have you ever had a squad of police come crashing through the wall of your house, throwing mercy-bullets and sleepy gas around, dragging housecleaners into the light, tearing up the indoor lawn—”
“I’ve never been a rebel.”
“The hell you say.”
Parlette smiled. It made him look too much like a death’s head. “I’ve never been caught.”
“Point is, Implementation can do that to anyone. And does, constantly. The householder doesn’t even get an apology when they don’t find evidence of crime.”
“I hate to restrict the police. It’s a sure route to chaos.” Parlette took a long swallow of cider. “All right, how does this sound? There used to be a thing called a search warrant. If kept the UN police from entering any home unless they had a good and sufficient reason, one they could show to a judge.”
“Sounds good.”
“I can look up the details in the library.”
“Another thing. As things stand now, Implementation has an exclusive monopoly on prisoners. They catch ’em, decide whether they’re guilty, and take ’em apart. We ought to split those functions up somehow.”
“I’ve thought about that, Kane. We can establish laws such that no man can be executed until he has been declared guilty by a clear majority of ten men. Five crew, five colonists, in cases where crew and colonists are both involved. Otherwise, trial by five of the prisoner’s own social group. All trials to be public, on some special teedee channel.”
“That sounds—”
“I knew it.” Jay Hood dropped back into the discussion with a thump of chair legs on flooring. “Do you realize that every suggestion either of you has made tonight would take power away from the Hospital?”
Parlette frowned. “Perhaps. What does it matter?”
“You’ve been talking as if there were two power groups on Mount Lookitthat. There are three! You, us, and the Hospital, and the Hospital is the most powerful. Parlette, you’ve been studying the Sons of Earth for Mist Demons know how long. Have you spent any time studying Jesus Pietro Castro?”
“I’ve known him a long time.” Millard Parlette considered. “At least, I know he’s competent. I don’t suppose I really know how he thinks.”
“Harry does. Harry, what would Castro do if we tried to put all these restrictions on his police?”
“I don’t understand you,” said Millard Parlette. “Castro is a good, loyal man. He has never done anything that wasn’t in the best interests of the crew. Perhaps I don’t know him socially, but I do know that he regards himself as a servant of the crew. Anything the crew accepts,
he will accept.”
“Dammit, Hood’s right,” said Harry Kane. “I know Castro better than I knew my father. I just hadn’t thought of this.”
“Jesus Pietro Castro is a good, loyal—”
“Servant of the crew. Right. Now hold on just a minute, Parlette. Let me speak.
“First of all, what crew? What crew is he loyal to?”
Parlette snorted. He picked up his mug and found it empty.
“He’s not loyal to any specific crew,” said Harry Kane. “In fact he doesn’t respect most crew. He respects you, and there are others who fit his ideals, but what he’s loyal to is a sort of ideal crew: a man who does not overspend, is polite to his inferiors and knows exactly how to treat them, and has the best interests of the colonists in his mind at all times. This image is the man he serves.
“Now, let’s look for a moment at what we propose to do. Search warrants for the Implementation police. We remove Implementation’s power to choose what colonists get the leftover materials from the organ banks. We tell them who they may and may not execute. Anything else, Jay?”
“Power. We’re taking the electrical monopoly away from the Hospital. Oh, and with less restrictions on the colonists, the police would have less work to do. Castro would have to fire some of ’em.”
“Right. Now, you don’t suppose every crew on the Plateau is going to agree with all of that, do you?”
“No, not all. Of course not. We may be able to swing a majority. At least a majority of political power.”
“Damn your majority. What crew is Castro going to be loyal to? You can name him.”
Parlette was rubbing the back of his neck. “I see your point, of course. Given that you’ve analyzed Castro correctly, he’ll follow the conservative faction.”