No, don’t be sorry, Grace. Just listen to this one befuddled male trying to make it up to you for the cruelty of other men.
She caught his hand, pressed it against her cheek.
“No man is ever sorry when a woman loves him,” he said. “Especially . . .” he paused. The lie came quite easily, easier than he had expected. “ . . .when he’s in love with that woman.”
Her arms were about his neck, pulling him to her. He found her lips, tasted the salt tears and the gladness. She disengaged one hand, pulled back the blankets, urged him in beside her.
It was like nothing he had ever before experienced. Such a free giving, a happiness. No demanding or taking. Afterward, he went to sleep with his head on her arm, her hand stroking his hair, her voice whispering, “My darling . . . my darling . . . my darling . . .”
Just before he fell asleep the thought came creeping up out of his unconscious. “You knew love would be like this.” He pushed the thought away.
Chapter 17
O’Brien paced his office, pausing occasionally to glare fiercely at Quilliam London, who sat in his accustomed chair at the end of the table, leaning forward to rest his arms upon the wood surface. On a chair beside London were an LP infirmary bag, a dark wig, rubber cheek distenders—his disguise.
The Bu-Psych chief had a feline look as he paced. “And she still refuses to come to you?”
“That’s right. Three days now.” London’s voice sounded tired.
“Doesn’t she realize nothing is more important than getting safely past this crisis?” O’Brien paused in his restless pacing, turned toward London. “What about the Sep organization?”
“I still get some reports,” said London. “The man is a whirlwind. He has a second sight for picking lieutenants who will know exactly what to do.” He drew in a deep breath, exhaled in a sigh. “Grace is the big flaw.”
“We didn’t plan on this.” O’Brien resumed his pacing. “Better alert Navvy to do the job if necessary.”
“I’ve already told him.”
“What’s his reaction?”
“He wants to know if we’re certain Grace loves Movius. And he’s tired of this hiding and slinking about. He’s as tired of it as I am.”
“You’ve done it before,” said O’Brien. Back and forth, pacing.
“But I was younger. Walking like a young man comes hard for me.” He tipped his craggy brows down. “Well, is he in love with her?”
O’Brien stopped. “Of course he is. The hypno-examination only confirmed what I already knew. He’s in love with her, but he can’t admit it to himself because he’s consumed by his drive for revenge. There’s a mother image underneath which fits Grace too closely. We should have thought of that.”
“He’s still useful to us,” said London. “The organization he has accomplished is phenomenal.”
“He’s useful as long as he’s dominated by hate,” said O’Brien. “This is no time for love. If we recognized how he feels about Grace we’d have to get rid of him. He’d turn soft, cautious.” O’Brien turned his back on London. “Do you think she’s really pregnant?”
He could not see London shrug, but he sensed it.
“If she’s not, why would Movius say such a thing?” asked O’Brien.
London stared at O’Brien’s back. “To see your reaction.”
O’Brien whirled. “That man is dangerous!”
“I see he got a reaction,” said London.
“Of course he got a reaction!”
“I’m more certain than ever that it’s not true.”
“Why?”
“We’ve made a dangerous error. We’ve underestimated our man. He was feeling for a reaction, hoping to panic us into an ill-considered move.”
“Such as?”
“My call to Grace immediately after you called me.”
O’Brien sank into his chair. “If Grace told me what you wanted, he has put two and two together.”
“One and one together,” said London. “Us.”
“Tell Navvy to get rid of him.”
London shook his head. “No! He’s still useful. If we can coalesce the uprising behind Movius we can still control it until we’re ready to dispose of him.”
“And what about Grace?”
London’s shoulders sagged. “That’s the chance we took.” His voice sank almost to a whisper. “Anyone is expendable.” The hunter’s eyes looked up at the chart of civilizations. “That’s what counts, preserving the knowledge of that for the next civilization, showing the new ones how to ride over a crisis.”
“We may have to lure Grace away from him when the time comes,” said O’Brien.
London unbent, rising out of his chair like some tall insect. “I will take care of that. I still know how to handle Grace.”
CR-14 was on the fifty-ninth floor of the Bu-Trans Building. The office looked out over the high-walled rear parking are where the big vans were kept, row on row of them far down below, angled precisely between white lines. By eleven o’clock most of the vans would be out working. It was early yet, though, and few had been dispatched. Movius stood at the window, looking down, waiting for Rafe Newton to appear. The cold-eyed receptionist had said Newton would be in shortly. It was a good thing. Another day of this waiting and he’d have discarded caution, started some action. But that was what they wanted him to do, obviously.
Three days they’d kept him waiting.
“Mr. Newton is out of town,” the receptionist had said the first day, and the next day, and the next.
And Gerard: “Be patient. They’re worried. They want time to see if you’re going to make the first move. They’ll be tracing back on you, too.”
Three blasted days of cooling his heels. Grace was feeling the tension of it as badly as he was. And Old Quilliam calling her every day like that, demanding to see her. Nothing to do but sit in the apartment and read, worry about him.
Movius glanced at his watch, turned around. It was a large room—CR-14—perhaps forty feet wide and sixty long. The left wall was taken up by doorless offices separated by low, frosted glass partitions. Along the opposite wall was a row of maps on movable stands. One map had been pulled into the room. It was dotted with colored pins. Almost precisely in the center of the room was a long dark wood table, chairs around it at odd angles as though a conference had just ended. They’d been that way for three days now while people wandered in and out of the room, not speaking, not appearing to notice Movius.
Three men and a woman entered. The woman was the only familiar one, a large, squarish figure with face to match. She reminded Movius of someone. He’d been trying to remember who and had meant to ask Gerard who she was. The man were all of a type—muscular with looks so average they would be difficult to separate or remember. They had dangerous eyes which searched but seemed never to find. The woman and one man went into one of the cubbyhole offices. The other two men pulled out a map and stood looking at it, talking in low voices. They ignored Movius.
A medium height, red-haired man walked into the room. He had a wolfish, narrow-jawed look, evasive eyes which flitted across Movius without seeming to notice him.
Red hair, thought Movius. That will be Newton. He examined the man as Newton went to the two men by the map. So this was the man who had ordered Gerard’s first investigator thrown down a light well. Movius touched the gun at his lapel.
The red-haired man turned away from the map, came up to Movius. “Are you Movius?” A colorless voice. The narrow-set eyes stared at Movius’ lapel.
You shifty-eyed low-opp, thought Movius. You know who I am. He said, “That’s right.”
“I’m Newton.” The eyes came up, flicked over Movius’ face, back to the lapel. “I run this department. I’ll explain your duties later.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward a cubbyhole near the end. “Your office is number five. Somebody should’ve told you.”
Movius felt tension rising in the room.
Newton took his arm. “Here, I’ll
show you the place and where things are.” He steered Movius across the room.
Yes, there was tension in the room. The two at the map had stopped talking. Movius glanced back. They had turned and were watching his progress toward the little office, Movius felt every sense in his body come was a trap! They had decided to get rid of him quickly. A compartment. What kind of a trap?
“In here.” Newton was urging him to go ahead.
Movius pulled back, brushed his hand over the bulge of the gun in his lapel holster. “You first, Mr. Newton.”
Tension in the room was electric. Movius flashed his left hand down to Newton’s elbow and, using upward leverage, thrust the red-haired man into the office. Newton’s scream was cut off by a stuttering sound, the shattering of glass. Movius slapped his lapel and the tiny gun dropped into his hand. He waved the muzzle across the two by the map and the man and woman who had come out of the end office. The four were in various stages of thrusting hands into pockets.
“Bring your hands out empty,” said Movius.
The hands come out of the pockets empty.
“Over against the wall.” He motioned with the gun. Their faces showed shock and fright. “Face the wall and lean against it with your hands.” He knew he did not need to look into the office. Rafe Newton had the reputation for laying excellent traps.
The four had eleven guns and an evil-looking dart projector designed from a stylus. After he had disarmed them, Movius ordered them to a position near the window, backed up to his cubbyhole. He glanced inside. Newton was sprawled on the floor in a spreading pool of blood. Atop a filing cabinet beside the door was a black box with a stutter gun fastened to it. Electric eye trigger. He had heard of them. Movius turned back to the four he had disarmed.
“All right. Walk ahead of me. Go slowly; don’t make any quick movements. We’re going upstairs.”
Warren Gerard stared at the four Movius had lined up against the office wall. “They were to be witnesses to your dreadful accident, eh?” He leaned forward, peered at each one. They fidgeted. “You’re somewhat of a problem.”
The woman cleared her throat, glanced sideways at the three men with her. “Make us an offer.”
Gerard leaned back. “Oh? You’re for sale?” He turned to Movius. “See anything you’d like to buy?”
“I’ve been thinking,” said Movius. “Say we call in Bu-Con and explain that there has been an accident. We show them Newton’s prints on the trap gun.” He looked at the woman. “They are on the trap gun, aren’t they?”
“On the electric eye box. He was going to get rid of the box, leave the gun on the floor with your prints on it. An accident with a gun.”
“On the box,” said Movius. “That’s even better. We’ll say he must’ve been setting a trap for somebody. We’ve no idea who.”
“What’s in it for us?” asked the woman.
The anger flared in Movius. That had been a close one down there. Too close. “There’s immunity from falling seventy-one floors to the courtyard!” he barked, glaring at her.
“You don’t give us any choice,” said one of the men.
“Nobody’s giving you a choice,” said Movius. “Just her.”
“But . . .”
“Shut up!” Movius turned to Gerard, who was grinning broadly, a cold, sadistic grin. “Do you have anyone who could look after these three? I’ll have to go down with what’s-her-name here to see if the job’s done right.”
Gerard pulled a gun from a drawer. “I’ve still some I can trust. Go ahead.”
Addington sent six men from Bu-Con. Movius had never seen them before, but they knew him, called him by name. They took photographs, measured, dusted for fingerprints, listened to the woman’s story.
“Who was Newton laying the trap for?” A sharp glance at Movius.
She shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“The fingerprints check.” The Bu-Con man studied the woman. “Tell us what happened in your own words.”
The story came out of her mouth with a pat sureness, as though it had been rehearsed. She was merely substituting Newton’s name for Movius.
They took her name. “Tyle Cotton.” And that caused Movius to stare. The cook’s sister, he thought. Now he saw the resemblance. She reminded him of the big, ungainly Marie Cotton. And Gerard’s ex-mistress. Bulb-head hadn’t batted an eye while looking at her, not shown by any sign that he knew her. A cold fish, Gerard.
“Mr. Movius, would you care to come over to Bu-Con and give your statement?”
He almost laughed. “Yes, I’d care. I’d care so much that I’m not going to do it.”
The Bu-Con men tensed.
“If you want out of this building alive you’ll just go quietly,” said Movius. “You know who he was setting the trap gun for. It backfired when he got careless.”
The investigator made a short note on a pad, waved his men out of the room, followed them. Presently, three men arrived with a stretcher, carted away what was left of Newton. Movius remained in the office with Tyle Cotton.
“What did they pay you for this?” asked Movius.
She turned a calculating look on him. “Promises.”
“What kind of promises?” The answer had surprised him; he’d figured she was the kind of work for revenge.
“Two ranks up and all that goes with it.”
He looked at the SIX above her lapel number. “When were you going to collect?”
She looked upward, her face going hard. “When Gerard was low-opped.”
“He’s not going to be,” said Movius.
“Oh?”
“Never accept promises as payment,” said Movius. “Take what you can get in your hands.” He turned. “Come along.”
Back in Gerard’s office, Movius waved her to a chair. Gerard was standing by an open window, looking down. He closed the window, turned. Just before he closed the window, Movius had heard the faint sound of sirens. With a sick feeling, he had the sudden sure knowledge of what could be seen far down on the paving beneath the window. Three men. He shivered.
“What now?” asked Gerard. Again he gave no sign he had ever seen Tyle Cotton before.
Movius went around the desk, pulled the green pad from a drawer. This was the one, DISTRICT HOUSIGN—SPECIAL ORDER stamped in the corner. He filled out a fourth rank housing order for Tyle Cotton, forged Gerard’s name to it, tore the order off the pad. He held it toward the woman, but did not release it.
“What the price?” she asked, eyeing the order.
“A list of names.”
She glanced toward the window. She knew what was down in the parking area, too.
Gerard found a white notepad and stylus, pushed them across the desk, not looking at her.
What’s he thinking? Movius wondered.
Tyle Cotton hitched her chair forward, began writing. Movius put the housing order beside the notepad. It was a long list. She finished, took up the housing order.
“You can go now,” said Movius. “Report back in the morning.” He watched until the door closed behind her.
“Do you trust her?” asked Gerard. He picked up the list, began reading the names silently, his lips moving.
“You trusted her,” said Movius.
Gerard’s bald head snapped up. “News travels.”
“So it does.” Movius looked at the list. “There isn’t any need to trust her.”
Gerard tapped the list with a fingernail. “Do you think this is accurate?”
“It doesn’t have to be. I wanted her handwriting.”
“Why?” Gerard scratched at his chin with a corner of the paper. “I could have given you that.”
Movius thrust his hands into his pockets. “We have two alternatives. Either she’ll go directly to Addington, tell him she’s given us a false list, or she’ll collect on that apartment, this being a true list of Newton’s friends or a list of her enemies.”
“Then what?”
“Let’s have the list,” said Movius. ??
?I’m going to check it. Then I’m going to post it or one in a duplicate of that handwriting on the door of CR-14.”
“Post it on . . .”
“Just post it. No threat, nothing but the names.”
“And then?”
“Wait for the missing faces. When they’re out three days we turn them in for evading work order.”
“Addington will give them asylum.”
“Certainly he will. But then we’ll be able to pop off these low-opps legally and with a clear conscious.”
Gerard pulled out his chair, sat down. There was perspiration on his bald head. “I think you frighten me, Movius. You work too fast.”
Movius frowned. “Frighten you? I’m doing this for you to keep you from being frightened.”
The way Gerard’s bald head nodded, Movius could read his thoughts: “Daniel Movius—high loyalty index . . . Daniel Movius—high loyalty index.” Gerard’s expression was gloating.
Movius suddenly thought of three men falling seventy-one stories to the paving and, with a sick feeling, realized he had put the thought in Gerard’s head. Dream on, Gerard, he thought. The new Daniel Movius is loyal only to Daniel Movius.
Chapter 18
Movius was tired when he reached the apartment, his nerves frayed out by the day. He nodded to the door guards, went up in the elevator. The apartment was empty. Movius sensed it the minute he closed the door. Damn it! Grace wasn’t supposed to go out! A note was pinned to the bedroom door. “Dan: I’ve gone with Navvy to see friends.” No signature.
Friends? Sep business? He could think of nothing she was supposed to do. The organization was running smoothly, the way a good organization should. It hardly required his attention anymore.
The door chimes rang. Movius went to the door, hesitated, palmed the little gun before opening the door wide. It was Janus Peterson, the fat Bu-Trans driver Movius had appointed one of his chief lieutenants. Peterson ducked inside, waited for the door to be closed.