High-Opp

  O’Brien said, “You ought to see my list of district governors, city mayors, managers, their assistants and the families of all of them, who have special numbers manually filed in the Selector. Who ever questions the operator of the Selector when he comes back and says, ‘This is the code number?’”

  “I suppose the question on my department was sent through on one of those numbers.”

  O’Brien nodded. “Number 089. In view of the question, it was hardly necessary, but The Coor evidently wanted to be certain.”

  Movius caught himself taking short, jerky breaths, fought to control his nerves. “How do they keep a secret like that? So many people!”

  “There are two answers,” said O’Brien. “They don’t keep it a secret. I’ll wager you’ve heard it and . . .”

  “Yes, but just a rumor.”

  “What else is a good secret? It’s no secret. I know it. Lots of other people know it. You know it. The other answer is that they do keep it a secret. They . . .”

  Movius held up his hand. “You just said . . .”

  “I know. But it is kept a secret from the main body of the LP. The Seps try to spread the word, but who believes the Seps? Those harebrains! Besides, believing Seps can be dangerous. How are you going to believe something when you don’t listen to it in the first place?”

  Movius rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. How indeed? He said, “I believe it.”

  “But look what it took to make you believe it,” said O’Brien. He sounded exasperated, like a teacher with a dense student. “It’s the flaw in their armor, of course. Get a man angry enough, bitter enough, he’ll believe almost anything.”

  Movius said, “But if you keep him from getting angry—keep him apathetic and his stomach filled, he won’t even listen. He’ll be too tired.”

  In a pedantic voice, O’Brien said, “Hunger elicits the first anger response of the baby. So, as you say, keep him from being hungry.”

  “Or convince him he knows everything already,” said Movius.

  “That, too.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?” said Movius.

  “Oh, yes, our little visit.” O’Brien’s attitude became more brisk. “Movius, The Coor wanted your fiancée and he needed to demonstrate to . . . uh, others that he has the power of life and death. That is why you were low-opped.”

  “That’s still no answer to my question.”

  “One moment,” said O’Brien. “Today, you saw Glass with your fiancée.”

  Movius pounded a fist into the palm of his hand. How did O’Brien know who I saw today? “You haven’t answered my question,” Movius repeated.

  “Please be patient. As you know, an order will go out tomorrow morning for you to report to the ALP. This is mostly to demonstrate that such . . . uh, accidents can be arranged. And also gets you out of the sight of the lovely Miss Lang. Not that I imagine such drastic measures were needed to gain the same end. There are other reasons.”

  Now we’re getting to it, thought Movius. He said, “Such as?”

  “You were a Third Ranker. Were you aware that you were the only man in government above the Fifth Rank who started from the LP? You climbed up there in twelve years. Under this form of government, with so many more places needed for the large families of the . . . uh, High-Opps, that is a dangerous rate of climb. Dangerous to the men it might displace. I believe some of them voiced their fears.”

  “The same opportunity open to all!” said Movius. Just some more of the old official pap. Eat your vitalac, little dear, if you want to grow up and be Coordinator. Dangerous rate of climb. Watch out you don’t eat too much vitalac, dear. You might become dangerous. “So they send me off to die in the ALP,” he said.

  “Mortality rate of seventeen point four,” said O’Brien in his precise manner. “With a little pushing in the right place, a promise of reprieve to someone else in the penalty service, the mortality rate becomes one-hundred percentum for one Daniel Movius.”

  He still hasn’t answered my question, thought Movius. Mr. Bu-Psych wants something from me. He said, “What do I do now?”

  “That depends on several things,” said O’Brien. “In about six weeks a second work order will come through. This will be the legal one and it will put you in Bu-Trans.”

  “Why bother with a work order for a dead man?”

  “To cover up the false order. That . . . uh, accidental order would be turned up, somebody in Bu-Labor, somebody inconvenient, would be low-opped.”

  Movius thought, If I could hide until that one comes through, wouldn’t that be embarrassing to them? Wouldn’t it, though? He said, “Is there a way to hide me?”

  “Perhaps.”

  What does he mean perhaps?

  “The second work order is for Bu-Trans,” said O’Brien as though he had not already made that point. “Warren Gerard put some special requirements into the sorter today. He’s prepared to wait because he half suspects the order can’t be filled. He doesn’t know that your card already has come out of the sorter, fitting his demands more precisely than he could have expected.”

  “This doesn’t make sense,” said Movius. He stood up, looked down on O’Brien.

  “Sit down,” said O’Brien. “You have to hear me out.”

  “Oh, I have to hear you out.” Movius felt himself breathing too rapidly. He thought, I’ve been swallowing everything this little pipsqueak says. How do I know what his game is?

  “Would you prefer the ALP?” asked O’Brien.

  “You haven’t told me what your game is,” said Movius.

  “I will, though. Sit down and hear what I have to say. Believe me, it’s important.”

  Movius returned to the pallet. “All right, but shorten it.”

  “As briefly as possible.” O’Brien scratched at the corner of an eye. “Gerard is in a very shaky position at the top of Bu-Trans. His Achilles heel is his Department CR-14, Confidential Routing as it is listed in the table of organization. This department is the government’s top secret spying group.”

  “In Bu-Trans?” Movius’ whole face showed his disbelief.

  “Who ever looks at a Bu-Trans truck?” asked O’Brien. “It goes about its business and no one notices. For that matter, who ever gives a second glance to the workmen with such a vehicle?”

  “What’s worrying Gerard?”

  “The Coor’s nephew, Rafe Newton, is director of CR-14. The Coor and Loren Addington . . .”

  “Mr. Police?”

  “The same. Only we call him Mr. Bu-Con. These two are set to replace Gerard with Newton.”

  “What does this mean to me?”

  O’Brien acted like a man about to unfold a masterpiece. He spread out his hands. “Gerard’s requirements are for a man to clean out the vipers in CR-14.”

  “And I fit this billing?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why are they after Gerard?”

  “Next to The Coor, Gerard is the most powerful man in government. At least potentially. He has the biggest organization, larger even than Bu-Con, but not larger than Bu-Con and several of the others upon whom The Coor is depending. It is what was once known as a ‘balance of power’. It is a very delicate . . .”

  “All right, let’s get to the point.” Again Movius lifted himself to this feet. “What is it that you want, O’Brien?”

  O’Brien looked up at Movius, put a finger to a greying temple, scratched. “You are the direct type, aren’t you, Dan? That’s good. I want you to spy on the spies . . . for me.”

  Movius found himself chuckling without humor. “Up here at the top you’re just one big happy family.”

  “You could say that.” O’Brien got to his feet. “Do you need time to come to a decision?”

  “What choice do I have? If I don’t throw in with you, I go to the ALP.” Movius shrugged. “Where do I hide?”

  “Good Gallup!” said O’Brien. “I’m not going to hide you.”

  “But you . . .”

 
“There was a woman waiting for you at the Warren today. She . . .”

  “Is she another of your spies?”

  “Her? Oh, my, no. She’s a Separatist. For precisely the same reasons which make you valuable to Gerard and myself and dangerous to the government, the Separatists are seeking to enlist your services. They are in a better position to hide you since I will be suspect.”

  “This woman will hide me?”

  “She and her friends.”

  “Does she have many friends?”

  “Grace London? She’s a nurse at the district infirmary in the Warren where she lives. Whole building’s subversive. Good Seps all.”

  “I suppose I repay them by spying on them.”

  “You needn’t bother.” O’Brien moved toward the wall which had opened to admit him.

  “You already had spies in their organization?”

  “Let us say that the Seps don’t worry me half as much as The Coor.” O’Brien spoke without turning. “I presume Miss London gave you instructions on how to meet her?”

  “Yes.”

  The wall swung back ahead of O’Brien. “Then I’ll have you dropped off where you may follow those instructions.”

  You fatuous, self-satisfied low-opp, thought Movius. Got me right where you want me, haven’t you? You and your big head full of intricate thoughts! We’ll see, damn you!

  Chapter 4

  The Carhouse was a sprawling two-story building pierced by deep, gloomy ramps to the parking levels. Movius noticed the Sep slogan, EMASI! scrawled on a wall where a cleaning crew had missed it. Perhaps on purpose.

  Every Man A Separate Individual!

  Unless he gets stamped STANDARD first, thought Movius.

  At one corner of the building an arrow sign read OFFICE. Movius followed the arrow inside, found one man, a thin, straw-colored figure whose energy ran to quick, short movements of hands and eyes.

  “You Movius?”

  “Yes.”

  “Take these.” He handed Movius a key and note. “Down that ramp, second door on your left. It’s locker eighty.” He seemed anxious for Movius to be gone.

  Movius said, “Thanks,” followed the man’s directions.

  It was between shifts and the Carhouse was a cavern of echoing footfalls, distant humming of power transmitters. The locker room held a thick odor of perspiration and dust as though in colloidal suspension. It was a long narrow place, steel lockers on both sides, benches down the center. Easy to imagine the room clanging with slammed doors and hurrying men at shift change. The clothes in locker eighty smelled of machine oil, fitted him loosely. Movius ran a hand along the bottom of the locker. As he had expected, it came away greasy. He smeared a streak of the grease along one jaw, spread it around his hands, under his nails. A rag on one of the locker hooks took off some of the grease, leaving enough for effect.

  From the pockets of his good suit, Movius transferred the few items he carried—identification, penknife, stylus, notepad. He rolled the good suit into a bundle, tossed it into the locker.

  Clancy’s note told him to take the employee’s elevator to the City Repair Service subway, catch shuttle fifty-one to the Bennington sub-prime generator station. Movius located the elevator in a side hall, descended to the subway, boarded the shuttle. He was relieved to find he was the only passenger. What could he tell a foreman he was doing? The automatic conductor flashed DESTINATION? He punched for Bennington, took a seat by the door. Now what? He wondered. This morning the Liaitor would have turned in any Sep he found. Now I have to ask them to hide me. The shuttle began to tremble as it gathered speed. Movius leaned back, waited.

  Presently, the shuttle began to slow, rocking gently. It stopped, the front light flashing BENNINGTON. Movius stepped out onto the platform, immediately felt the humming presence of the generators through his shoes. A stranger leaned against the wall at one side of the platform. Movius glanced at him, looked away. I have to act casual, he thought. He risked another look. Navvy! He was wearing off-duty browns, but his complexion was ruddy, cheeks fatter, hair a difficult color. Movius strode toward him.

  Navvy pushed away from the wall. “How did you recognize me?”

  “The slouch,” said Movius. “I could always tell my car by the look of you slouched against it.”

  Navvy grinned. “I’ll have to work on that. Come on.”

  “Where?”

  “My father’s place. Were you followed?”

  “Who would want to follow me?”

  “The Coor’s thuggees.”

  Movius remembered what O’Brien had said about followers. “There were some earlier, but I don’t think they followed me here.” He debated telling Navvy about O’Brien, decided to wait, see what the situation was.

  “I suspect we’d better do some ducking about,” said Navvy. “This way.” They went into the service elevator. Navvy took it up, stopped between floors. He did something complicated to the controls with a piece of string, led the way out the escape hatch and into a conduit tunnel so low they had to bend their heads to walk. Movius heard the elevator start up behind them.

  That’s a trick I’ll have to learn, he thought.

  Navvy produced a tiny flashlight, picked away between the maze of pipes. His shadow was a hovering bat on the ceiling. The tunnel smelled of dampness and some chemical, acrid and biting in the nostrils. He couldn’t place it. Several times Navvy glanced back to see if Movius was still following.

  “Smell the chlorine?” asked Navvy. “They caught eight Seps in here last month. Gassed them all.”

  Movius felt a trapped sensation, imagined himself caught in here with the rolling clouds of gas pouring down on him. Navvy showed no sign he even considered this possibility. Movius thought of all the times he had sat behind Navvy in the car, never once suspecting him of this sort of knowledge. Never questioned how Navvy got the car to some destination. Never thought of him being a Sep. If Grace was a Sep, as O’Brien had said, then Navvy had to be one, too. And the father, also. Probably a ringleader, that one.

  The tunnel branched. They took the left turning. Movius felt his neck beginning to ache from the bent-over walking. It seemed they had come five miles.

  “How far have we come?” he whispered.

  Navvy spoke over his shoulders in a normal tone. “A little over a mile. There’s a turning down here about a quarter of a mile. We take that for about a hundred yards to another elevator.”

  The elevator well was a faintly-illuminated grey hole, narrow rungs of a ladder going up the wall beside the tunnel mouth. Navvy leaned out, grasped a rung, climbed upward. Movius followed. They came out in a sewer service dome. Navvy fiddled with the lock, opened the door a crack, peered out. “Come on.” He ducked through; Movius followed. The door clicked shut behind them.

  It was another Warrenate, gloomy under the dim illumination of widely spaced street lights. Movius could distinguish the outline of the Council Hills section above the building on his right. Clouds over the hills held a rosy glow. Lights in the towering apartments had a warm look of elevated privacy. Behind one of those lights up there—Cecelia and Helmut. Or maybe they were one of the dark places. The tired muscles in his fingers reminded him he had been clenching and unclenching his fists.

  “This way,” said Navvy.

  They crossed the street, strolled down the walk, trying to act casual.

  “We’re to meet a couple of men who’ll tell us which route is open,” said Navvy. “Lots of Bu-Con patrols out tonight.”

  Three men came out from between buildings on their left, approached, walking abreast. When they were about ten feet away, Movius recognized the one on the right. The Coor’s bodyguard from the hallway outside Cecelia’s apartment. Something glinted in the man’s hand. Instinctively, Movius ducked, crying out a warning to Navvy. He dove toward the man, heard the sharp fap! of a gun over his head. The men went down before him. Movius got the gun hand, brought the edge of his other hand down hard above the bridge of the man’s nose, remembering al
l the times in the gym when Okashi had cautioned him to use this blow lightly. It could kill a man. The gunman went limp.

  Movius rolled over, avoiding the full force of a kick aimed at his head by another of the men. It caught him on the jaw and he tasted blood. Movius rolled away, hooked a toe behind the kicker’s ankle, slammed his other foot into the man’s knee. There was a crack of broken bones. The man screamed and toppled over backwards. Movius charged to his feet, kicked a hand away from a gun pocket, brought the foot down on the man’s face. He whirled, saw Navvy rolling on the sidewalk with the third one. Movius grabbed up the fap-gun which had fallen from the body guard’s hand, waited until Navvy’s opponent rolled uppermost, and cracked the man on the head with the gun. Navvy stood up, feeling gingerly of his neck.

  A car turned at the end of the street.

  “Let’s get out of here!” Navvy took Movius’ arm, led the way running between the buildings and around the rear. As they turned the corner, Movius glanced back, saw the car stop beside the fallen attackers, disgorge four men. One man he recognized—Loren Addington, the fat chief of Bu-Con. Movius felt the gun in his hand, all of the hate seeming to flow out through that hand. Here was one of the Com-Burs High-Opps who had put him in this position. He lifted the gun, fired twice at the figures beside the car, saw one topple, clutching his side. Not Addington, though; the fat man ducked behind his car.

  Movius felt Navvy tugging at his arm. “Come on!”

  They found an open service entrance to a Warren, ran down a flight of steps to a boiler room, behind the boiler to the conduit tunnel. “Thank Roper for standard construction,” panted Navvy. “We’re somewhere under Richmond Warrenate. Have to get out of here before they block off the tunnels, smoke us out. We’ll head northeast.”

  It seemed they were an hour running in the tunnels, down ladders, up ladders, twisting, turning. Movius was hopelessly turning around. For some reason, he didn’t think about that. He was remembering the fight. He couldn’t explain to himself why the action had left him feeling refreshed. It was as though he had needed the violence. The battle had been like a catharsis, easing the tensions inside him. He felt washed clean, ignored the pain in his jaw where the man had kicked him.