High-Opp

  Chapter 14

  “We must give him the idea that Bu-Psych is omnipotent,” said O’Brien, leaning back in his chair, steepling his fingers before his mouth. “He must grow to feel that we know every move he makes.” O’Brien lowered his hands, leaned forward.

  Grace stood at the end of the table, back to the chart with the single red line. The line had been carried perhaps an inch farther along its journey, rising slightly.

  “I understand,” she said. “It’s the only way you can control him”

  “I wanted a chance to talk to you, anyway,” said O’Brien. He leaned back, pressed his fingers against his greying temples. “I learned today that you’ve been asking questions of one of our consultants.”

  She turned her profile to him, stared at the chart on the other wall.

  O’Brien leaned forward. “Why did you ask what kind of a husband a man with a high loyalty index makes?”

  “I was curious.” Her tone was defiant.

  “And your curiosity was satisfied? You found out they make extremely devoted husbands.” He slapped his hand against the table top to startle her. “Grace! If you were called upon to eliminate him today, what would you do?”

  She paled. “Maybe you’d better get somebody else.”

  “We can’t. We don’t dare arouse his suspicions.”

  “Then I’d have to . . . to do it,” she said, her voice low. She turned, looked at O’Brien. “Nate, what is the loyalty index, really?”

  “I don’t know if I can answer that question in simple terms,” he said. “Essentially, though, I guess you could say it measures the feeling a person has for the welfare of others.”

  She nodded. “Where is he?”

  “Let’s not get sentimental,” said O’Brien. “He’s under hypnos now, being examined. We want to know how he feels toward you.” O’Brien leaned back.

  Her hands began to tremble and she clasped them tightly together. “He’s very resourceful,” she said.

  O’Brien looked at her hands, the knuckles so white where she clasped them. He tugged at an ear. “Yes. Now we want to know how he operates in CR-14. He knows Newton will be out to kill him as he did the other man Gerard sent down. He also knows that Gerard’s threat may not keep Addington and The Coor away.”

  She turned a piercing stare upon him. “What do you think Dan will do?”

  O’Brien glanced at the red line on the chart. “Our treatment has been pretty drastic. He has been thrown into a tough problem situation. My guess is he’ll show his ruthless side. He’ll stamp on Newton the way he’d stamp on an insect. Addington and The Coor, too, given the chance. It’s a delicate situation, but one calculated to win Gerard’s trust if he succeeds. That’s what Gerard would like to do to his enemies—stamp on them—if he dared. I believe Gerard is taken in by the loyalty index. He thinks he has won Movius’ loyalty. Gerard doesn’t know too much about the variants on the index.”

  “What about my father?” she asked. “Does he have a ruthless said, too?”

  “All revolutionaries have a ruthless side,” he said. “They have to be practical. That means doing the thing that is necessary. Your father and brother had to go into hiding today. We had planned on it.”

  “Hiding?”

  “You’ve been recognized as Mrs. Movius,” said O’Brien. “Your relations, therefore, know something. They might be . . . uh, persuaded to reveal what they know.”

  Grace sighed, looked down at her hands.

  “You have been remembering that you are a woman,” said O’Brien. “You must put that memory aside. You are a Bu-Psych operative. When this is all over, the crisis past, you can find some nice young man . . .”

  He watched, calculatingly, as Grace turned away, went to the door, opened it slowly. She kept her face averted as she spoke. “I’ll leave now if you don’t mind. We can’t let him see me here when you bring him out.”

  “Of course.”

  She closed the door behind her.

  O’Brien jerked to his feet, stood at the window, staring out over the city where lights were beginning to spring alive in the dusk. “Such weak tools,” he whispered. “Put a little strain on one and it bends out of shape.”

  Chapter 15

  It was the same hard pallet in the same red-walled cell. Movius sat up, put his feet over the edge. What was O’Brien trying to prove? Something Quilliam London had said came back to Movius: “Find out what the other man wants.” He’d used that idea once before this day—on Gerard. All right, what did O’Brien want? Why this method of bringing him in? To make him believe that Bu-Psych was omnipotent, maybe that they could pick him up any time. But that could mean that underneath it all O’Brien was unsure. The man who knows his own strength doesn’t stand around flexing his muscles. The thought gave him confidence. He got to his feet, waited until the end door opened, strode to meet O’Brien as the Bu-Psych chief entered.

  “Let’s talk outside,” said Movius. “Your red walls have lost their potency.”

  O’Brien hesitated for the briefest instant. “Of course.” He tossed a canvas chair onto the pallet, turned and led the way out of the cell. “My office is over here.” He opened the door for Movius, followed him into the room of the charts.

  Movius glanced swiftly around the room, saw the chair he knew must be O’Brien’s at the end of the table, strode to it, sat down. O’Brien appeared not to notice.

  “I wanted to hear from your own lips what happened with Warren Gerard today,” said O’Brien. He lowered himself into the chair usually occupied by Quilliam London, unconsciously assumed London’s pose of reserved superiority.

  From my own lips, thought Movius. That could mean he already has heard the story. From who? Addington? Gerard? The gladiator? One of Addington’s men? Grace? But she was back at the apartment. He glanced at the windows. Nearly dark. He had entered the elevator shortly after noon. Grace could have been here. Why had they kept him unconscious so long?

  “Your report is the price of your continued freedom,” said O’Brien. “Let’s have the story.”

  Movius sat back. The story? All right. A bare recounting. He held out no essential details, watched the unmoving way O’Brien accepted the information. Yes, he had heard it before. Movius finished, waited.

  O’Brien said, “How is your marriage with Grace London coming?”

  Now why would O’Brien be interested in his married life? Out of some perverse impulse, Movius said, “We’re expecting our first baby in the Spring.”

  He hadn’t expected the reaction from O’Brien. The Bu-Psych chief jerked to attention, took two deep breaths, suddenly jumped to his feet. “I just thought of something,” he said and dashed out of the room.

  That hit him, thought Movius. Why?

  In a moment, O’Brien returned, sat down, wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “Important business I forgot to attend to,” he said lamely.

  “Let me ask a question,” said Movius. “The last time I was here you spoke about a crisis. What is this crisis?”

  O’Brien waited a full minute before answering, head lowered, staring upward at Movius.

  I hit him hard with that remark about Grace, thought Movius. But why? What difference could it make to him?

  O’Brien stirred in his chair, rubbed the greying temples with the tips of his fingers. “Our civilization is nearing a catastrophic crisis.” He nodded toward the side wall chart with its multi-colored lines. “There’s the course of history as far back as we know it. Civilizations arose and fell. But we’ve learned something—their crises were predictable from various indications. We have charted these indications and know we are approaching such a crisis. Our work indicates it will be of such a nature that it could leave nothing upon which to build a new civilization.”

  Movius thought of the stirrings and rumblings in the Warrens, of the old people and their warnings of terrible omens. He multiplied what he had seen by the world’s LP population, the reports of his own Sep couriers. This brought another t
hought: strange that O’Brien had not asked about the Sep movement. The indications were that he still had his spy in the Seps. Navvy hadn’t reported success in his search. Could it be Navvy? He thought about this, returned to O’Brien’s warning. He said, “The crisis would leave no one alive?”

  “Certainly there would be people left alive.” O’Brien’s tone said it was a foolish question. “The whole population never participates in a revolution.”

  “Civilizations aren’t built by charts on walls,” said Movius. “People build civilizations.”

  O’Brien frowned. “But what kind of a civilization? One that would not profit from our mistakes, from our lessons. We week to raise humanity above its past heights.”

  A story from one of his father’s books came back to Movius. A Greek mythological hero, Antaeus, had gained his strength from touching the earth. He said, “You fancy yourself as Hercules and the people as Antaeus. You should remember what happened to Antaeus when he stayed too long from his source of strength.”

  The classical reference brought a sharp look of questioning from O’Brien. “You are a philosopher.”

  “A civilization without your kind of people might take a new and better course,” said Movius.

  O’Brien’s eyes narrowed to slits; he sat back, lowered his chin.

  Movius looked past O’Brien to the other chart, noted the single red line moving upward to the right. Without being told, he suddenly realized that single line had something to do with his life. It was a flash of prescience. With the thought, he knew he must not let O’Brien suspect the chart’s secret was known. Movius pushed himself up from the chair. I’m important to him in some way, he thought. But what way? It’s not as a spy. That’s a cover for something else. And Grace is important to him, too. How?

  “You have your information,” said Movius. “Next time contact me in a more conventional manner. Otherwise I might not be as cooperative.” He strode around the table, stopped beside O’Brien. “Have a car ready for me downstairs.” The mood of perversity returned. “My wife will be worried. I don’t want her worrying too much . . . in her condition.”

  O’Brien took three deep breaths. “See that you keep your reports complete and accurate.” His voice exposed a mood of petulance quickly masked. “We need the information to predict the exact moment of crisis.”

  “Don’t you know already?”

  “We think it will coincide with The Coor’s Fall poll.”

  Movius smiled. “Ah, the big holiday when all we have to do is bind our chains more tightly.”

  “We’re almost certain of it,” said O’Brien.

  “And I’m part of your omnipotence,” said Movius.

  A cold smile touched O’Brien’s lips. “That is correct.”

  “Who’s spying on me?” asked Movius.

  “You’d never in a million years guess.”

  Movius shrugged.

  “We’ll contact you,” said O’Brien, “the next time we need some information.”

  “You’re so thoughtful,” said Movius.

  Chapter 16

  Grace was pacing the floor when he arrived. “Where have you been?” she demanded. “I’ve been frantic!”

  Her worry seemed natural, but there was a false note in it somewhere, as though she were worried about something else. He said, “Sit down.”

  She went to a chair by the window, sank into it. Movius took a chair opposite her.

  Was Grace the spy? It would be logical. But then again . . .

  He leaned forward, told her about the visit with O’Brien, omitting the barb with which he had stung the Bu-Psych chief.

  Grace clenched her hands tightly in her lap. “He’s a cruel and callous man.”

  “You’ve met him?”

  She chewed her lower lip. “I’ve heard about him.”

  The pause before she spoke, her nervousness. She was obviously lying. Movius said, “O’Brien thinks . . .”

  The phone in the hall rang once. Grace jumped to her feet, ran to the phone. “Hello.”

  Movius turned, watched her, saw Grace glance his direction.

  “I can’t,” she said. “It’s impossible.” She listened. “Why, that’s not true! It’s just not true! We haven’t . . .” Again she listened. “I don’t know why . . . I told you I can’t do it and that’s final!” She slammed the phone into its cradle, strode back to her chair, sat down. Her lips were compressed and she was shivering.

  “Who was that?”

  She glanced at him, suddenly turned to face him with that stare he found so uncomfortable. “That was my father.”

  Something had upset old Quilliam. Movius said, “What did he want?”

  “To see me.” Her eyes remained unwavering.

  “Why did he want to see you?”

  “He’s heard I was pregnant.”

  A sharply indrawn breath was Movius’ first reaction. He exhaled slowly, a stillness coming over him. It was less than an hour since he’d shocked O’Brien with that claim. London! The old man was the spy! He was the kind—a calculating one like O’Brien. All logic and no human feelings. A man with no instincts to trust. He’d pushed them so far under. The pattern began to take shape. Movius looked at Grace. She had pulled back into her chair, was avoiding his eyes. Movius felt a wave of pity for Grace. She was the spy in his house, but he couldn’t find it in him to criticize her for it. Her tears and unhappiness showed clearly how her sympathies were torn. The pity became hate for Quilliam London. Imagine a father using his own daughter as a common pawn in such a game! The cold brutality of it left him numb.

  “What are you thinking?” asked Grace.

  Every mannerism betrayed her. She was in love with the man she was committed to betray. Again Movius felt the pity for her. He gave a short, mirthless laugh, stood up, went into the bedroom. The city was a dull glow of lights beyond the terrace.

  Grace followed him, turned on the bedroom lights.

  So it was Grace, he thought. And Navvy, too. The whole damned family! He said, “Dress in the bathroom. I’ll turn my back while you get in bed.”

  She went to the closet, pulled out a nightgown. “Our things came while you were out. There were some extras with a card from Mr. Gerard.”

  “He’s taking very good care of us,” said Movius. “We’re so valuable to him.” He couldn’t mask the bitterness in his voice.

  She remained silent, went into the bathroom.

  Movius slipped out of his clothes and into bed, turned his face to the wall. Such a strange relationship they had. He wondered if he shouldn’t end it immediately, discarded that area, telling himself it was because such a move would reveal his knowledge. He heard the door open, waited for Grace to get into bed. Her voice startled him, coming from right above him. “Dan, I’m frightened.”

  He turned over, saw her standing beside his bed in a thin nightgown, the almost girlish curves outlined against the lights behind her.

  She saw the direction of his gaze, took an involuntary step backward, then shrugged. “We’re married,” she said. “I guess it doesn’t really matter.” She sat on the edge of his bed, looked toward the windows, hands clasped in her lap.

  Movius suddenly realized she had a nice profile. Sweet. Her breasts were fuller than he had thought, rising and falling gently with her breathing.

  “I think it was the brutality of those men who searched me.” She twisted her hands in her lap. “And the way you reacted. Violence! It leaves me with a sick feeling, disgusted.”

  Poor Grace, he thought. She was in way over her head and couldn’t see which direction to turn. So defenseless. He wanted to reach out, pat her shoulder, comfort her. The poor kid. Somehow he couldn’t do it. That damned callous Quilliam! She stood up, went to her own bed, crawled under the covers, lay back. There was something elfin about her, he thought. Yes, sweet was the word. Sweet and elfin.

  “If I could make it to be some other way, I would,” he said. He reached up to the switch on the wall over his head, preparin
g to turn off the light. A glance at Grace showed the tears running down her cheeks. He clicked the switch, lay back in the darkness.

  “You know, don’t you?” she asked, her voice remote.

  Had she realized her position is no longer secret? he wondered. “Know what?” he asked.

  “That I love you.” The voice so small, so faint.

  His feeling was consternation. He didn’t know what to say, waited, feeling like a coward and a fool.

  “I understand how it is,” she said. “I’ll hold to our bargain. You can have me any way you want, Dan.”

  “Thanks,” he said and could have bitten off his tongue the instant he’d spoken. Sure, thanks for giving me your life, everything you have. Thanks for being so brave in the giving. Sorry it leaves you so poor, old thing. Can’t be helped, I guess.

  A dry sob came from Grace’s direction.

  This could be even more complex, he thought. She loves me, yet she has to report to her father, who reports to O’Brien. So she offers herself to me to make it up, to ease her conscious. But that was too complicated; that was O’Brien’s type of thinking.

  “I don’t know what to say,” he said.

  “I understand. I know you don’t love me.”

  “I don’t know how I feel. I thought all I had room for was hate. I guess I’m still numb inside.”

  He was surprised to find this was true.

  Through the silence he could hear her uneven breathing. Suddenly, he realized how it must be for a woman like her—something tossed about by the cold logic of men. He remembered that Quilliam London knew she was supposed to be pregnant. And the old man’s first thought had not been of his daughter’s welfare. No. It had been about his precious plans. What made men like Quilliam London? Maybe it was fighting a system they hated and always losing. Or, never quite winning.

  “Dan.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry I’ve complicated your life like this.” Her voice had a little catch in it.

  Damn it! She was so absolutely defenseless. He slipped out of bed, was half way across to her before he realized he was nude. In the darkness, what’s the difference? he thought. He knelt beside her bed, reached out, stroked her forehead. “Don’t be sorry, Grace.”