Gripping the boy futilely, Hyndshaw bellowed: “You know I’m stuck. You know I don’t have a choice. You can see it!”
“Nobody has a choice,” Jones said, suddenly stern and thoughtful. “Not me or you—nobody. We’re all chained up like cattle. Like slaves.”
Slowly, wretchedly, Hyndshaw let go of him. “Why?” he protested, raising his fat, empty hands.
“I don’t know. That’s something I can’t tell you—yet.” Jones calmly finished his beer and then tossed the bottle into the dry weeds at the edge of the road. In the last year the weeds had grown six feet high. “Let’s go—I’m interested in getting into this cat house. It’ll be the first time for me.”
Into the hygenic police cell stepped the dispatch carrier. He saluted the guards and handed over his papers.
“All right,” one of the guards said, nodding to Jones. “Come along.”
The wait was over; he was on his way. Exultant, Jones followed after the clanking, uniformed figure. The guard led him down a long yellow-lit corridor, to a series of magnetically-sealed locks. The locks rolled back, and beyond lay an ascending ramp lost in cold night shadow. A dark wind whipped along the ramp, plucking at Jones’ sleeves. Overhead chill stars shone here and there, set in a totally opaque sky.
He was outside the police building.
At the terminus of the ramp stretched a concrete driveway. A few yards off to one side a heavy car stood gleaming, moist and metallic. The guard led him to it, held the door open, and then slid in beside him. The driver snapped on the headlights and the car moved onto the road.
The ride took half an hour. When the lights of a small town glowed weakly ahead, the massive car pulled from the rutted, uneven road, onto the shoulder. Among the weeds and debris the door was opened, and Jones was motioned out. The guard climbed back in wordlessly, slammed the door, and off roared the car, leaving Jones standing alone.
He began walking toward the lights of the town. Presently a partly-demolished gas station rose into view. Next came a roadside tavern, a bar, a closed-down grocery store and a drugstore. And, finally, a gigantic, crumbling hotel.
In the lobby of the hotel lounged a few men, most of them old, eyes vacant, without hope, smoking and waiting listlessly. Jones strode among them to the telephone booth beside the desk. Fishing a two-dollar piece from his pocket he rapidly dialed.
“I’m at a town called Laurel Heights,” he told the individual who answered. “Come and pick me up.”
After that he strolled restlessly around the lobby, gazing through the fly-specked window at the dark road beyond.
They would all be waiting, and he was impatient to begin. First came his speech and then the questions, but to him it was a formality; he had previewed long ago the grudging, reluctant acceptance of his conditions. They would protest but in the end they would give in; the publisher, first, and then General Patzech, and then Mrs. Winestock whose Montana estate provided the meeting place and whose money was to finance the Organization.
The name pleased him. They would call themselves Patriots United. Tillman, the industrialist, would suggest it; the legal arrangements had already been put through by David Sullivan, the councilman from New York. It had all been arranged, and it was going to work out as planned.
In front of the hotel appeared a slim needle-nosed projectile. Cautiously, the projectile came to rest against the curb; its lock fastened, and the hull slid back. Jones hurried from the lobby out into the night cold. Making his way to the projectile, he felt in the darkness for the opening.
“It’s about time,” he told the shapes half-visible in the gloom. “Are they all there?”
“Every one of them,” the answer came. “All assembled and ready to listen. Got your seat-straps fastened?”
He had. The hull slid shut, snapped into place, and the lock released. An instant later the needle-nose raced forward into the sky. It headed west toward Montana and the Bitterroot Mountains; Jones was on his way.
7
ON THE BULLETIN board of the post office, among the escaped-counterfeiter notices and information on rocket mail, hung a large white square, firmly taped in place behind protective glass.
WARNING TO THE PUBLIC!
MIGRATING PROTOZOA NOT
TO BE HARMED
The public is hereby advised that certain interplanetary migratory protozoa referred to as drifters have, by special act of the Supreme Council of the Federal World Government, been placed in the category of Wards of the State, and are not to be damaged, harmed, mutilated, destroyed, abused, tortured, or in any way subjected to cruel or unusual treatment with intent to injure or kill. Further, it is advised that Public Law 30d954A requires that any person or persons found so abusing members of the class of interplanetary migratory protozoa referred to as drifters will be punished by fine of not more than one hundred and ninety thousand Westbloc dollars and/or confinement to a forced labor camp for a period not to exceed twenty years.
It is hereby stated by the Department of Public Health of the Federal World Government that the migratory protozoa referred to as drifters are benign, incomplete single-celled organisms incapable of affecting human safety or property, and if left alone will succumb to the natural temperature of the Earth’s surface. It is further advised that any person witnessing the aforedescribed mistreatment of migratory protozoa referred to as drifters will be rewarded with the cash sum of ten thousand Westbloc dollars.
Oct 7 2002
Most of the escaped-counterfeiter notices and information on rocket mail were yellowed, dog-eared, fly-specked with age. This notice remained bright and clean throughout its life: after it had hung for perhaps three hours, the protective glass was carefully slid aside, and the notice removed. The notice was torn up and thrown away. And the glass re-closed.
The man who led this particular mob had red hair and was blind in one eye. Otherwise he looked like any other wide-shouldered laborer striding along at the head of a mob . . . Except that when he emerged briefly in the moonlight, an armband was momentarily visible, and in his right hand was gripped a portable wireless field telephone.
The mob wasn’t a mob, either. It was a tightly-organized line of dedicated men. Behind those men came a straggling, undisciplined crowd composed of high school boys, girls in white shorts, children wheeling bikes, middle-aged workmen, sharp-faced housewives, dogs, and a few old people with their arms folded against the cold. For the most part the crowd stayed behind and minded their own business; it was the line of dedicated men responding to the red-headed leader who did the actual work. And the red-headed leader was carrying out instructions relayed over the field telephone.
“The next house,” the field telephone was saying, in its odd little whisper, compounded of night and metallic cobwebs. “I can see it pretty well. Watch your step; somebody’s coming to meet you.”
Overhead, the scout plane rotated its jets and secured itself directly above the quarry. The quarry had come to rest on the roof of a long-abandoned warehouse. It was virtually invisible; nobody knew how long it had lain there, drying and cracking in the hot sunlight, sweating cold drops of mist during the long nights. It had just now been detected by one of the periodic aerial flights over the town.
It was a big one.
“God,” the field telephone gasped, as the scout plane gingerly lowered itself. “It’s a granddaddy. It’s big as a barn. Must be old as hell.”
The red-headed leader didn’t answer; he was cautiously scanning the side of the warehouse, looking for a ladder to the roof. Finally he made it out: a fire-escape ladder that ended ten feet from the pavement.
“Get those boxes,” he ordered one of his men. “Those trash boxes over in that alley.”
Two men broke away from the line; handing their flashlights to others behind them, they trotted across the silent street. It was late, well past midnight. The factory district of Omaha Falls was forbidding and deserted. Far off, a car motor sounded. Now and then somebody in the tautly-watching crowd co
ughed or sneezed or murmured. None of them spoke out loud; rapt, fascinated, with an almost religious awe, they watched the men drag the trash boxes over and stack them under the ladder.
A moment later the red-headed man leaped up, caught the last rung, and dragged the ladder down.
“There you go,” the field telephone said, in the hands of one of his men. “Be careful when you get up on the roof . . . it’s right at the edge.”
“Is it alive?” the red-headed man demanded, momentarily taking back the field telephone.
“Think so. It stirred a little, but it’s weak.”
Satisfied, the red-headed man snatched up the ten-gallon drum of gasoline and climbed the ladder. Under his strong fingers the metal was sweaty. Grunting, he continued on, past the second floor of the warehouse, past the gaping, broken holes that had been windows. A few indistinct shapes filled the building, obsolete war machinery rusting and discarded. Now he was almost at the roof. Halting, he held on for a moment, getting his wind and examining the situation.
The lip of the roof was visible. To his nostrils came the faint pungent scent of the drifter; the odor of drying flesh that he had come to know so well. He could almost see it. With great caution he climbed one more rung; now it was clearly visible.
The drifter was the largest he had seen. It lay across the roof of the warehouse, folded and wadded in thick layers. One edge dripped loosely over the side; if he wished, he could reach out his hand and touch it. But he didn’t wish. Frightened, he involuntarily pulled back. He hated even to look at them, but he had to. Sometimes, he had to touch them; and once, one dreadful time, he had slipped and fallen into one, found himself half-buried in the quivering mass of protoplasm.
“How’s it look?” a man below shouted up.
“Fine.”
“Is it big?”
“Very.” The red-headed man poised himself expertly and craned his neck. The drifter looked old and noticeably yellow: its fluid had turned an aged opaque, discoloring the asphalt roof beneath. It was quite thin, of course; each layer was only a fraction of an inch thick. And it was alien. A foreign, unfamiliar life-form, dropped from the sky onto the roof of this warehouse. His gorge rose up in his throat and almost choked him. Turning away, he bent down and fumbled with the lid of the gasoline drum.
The gasoline had been strewn over the roof and the match applied, when the first police ship came screaming down, past the slow scout plane, directly at the roof.
The crowd scattered; the scout plane scuttled off. Standing in the safety of the shadows, the red-headed man perceived that the fire could not be put out. A police fire-ship squirted futile foam for awhile and then retired. The fire-ship hesitated, then dropped below roof-level, to halt the blaze from spreading downward. The drifter itself had already perished. Once, the drying cadaver shivered and sent flaming bits of itself showering down on the pavement. Rapidly, it curled, shriveled, oozed out its life-fluids, and degenerated. A shrill high-pitched squeal echoed up and down the street; its living sap was protesting mindlessly against the fire. Then the remaining tissue charred and disintegrated into smoking fragments. The fire-ship hoisted itself, squirted a few perfunctory times, and then retreated.
“That’s it,” the red-headed man said into the field telephone. He felt a deep and lasting satisfaction, knowing that he personally had killed the alien life-form. “Now we can get going.”
8
ON THE BRIGHTLY-LIT stage colorful shapes danced and gestured. The costumed figures sang lustily, bustily; scenery glimmered with a high sparkle: a small square of brilliance cut in the far end of the hall. The third act was coming to an end. All the characters were on stage; with infinite precision they gave forth their melodic lines. In the pit, the orchestra—classical and exact—labored furiously.
Dominating the opera loomed the aged, wallowing figure of Gaetano Tabelli, long past his prime but still a splendid singer and actor. Purple-faced, near-sighted, the fabulous Tabelli waddled about the stage, an expression of dumbfounded bewilderment on his huge wrinkled features, struggling grotesquely to find his way through the maze of shadows that made up the world of Beaumarchais. Peering through his eye-glass, Tabelli grossly scrutinized his fellows, bellowing all the while in his vast, familiar, booming bass-baritone. A greater Don Bartolo there never was. And never would be. This performance, this zenith of consummate operatic staging, dramatic force, and perfected vocal artistry, had been frozen for all time. Tabelli was dead, now, ten years. The bright figures on the stage were scrupulous robot imitations.
But even so, the performance was wholly convincing. Relaxed and comfortable in his deep chair, Cussick watched with passive appreciation. He enjoyed Le Nozze di Figaro. He had seen Tabelli many times; he had never become tired of the great performer’s finest role. And he enjoyed the gay costumes, the uninterrupted flow of lyrical melody, the pink-cheeked chorus singing peasant interludes for all they were worth. The music and phantasmagoria of colors had gradually put him in a soporific state. Dreaming, half-asleep, he leaned back in his seat and happily absorbed it all.
But something was wrong.
Awakened, he pulled himself upright. Beside him, Nina sat slumped in rapt satisfaction; her mood was unbroken. Before he realized what he was doing, he had slid to his feet.
Blinking, Nina broke out of her trance. “What?” she whispered, astonished. He made a silencing motion and pushed his way down the row to the aisle. A moment later he was plodding stonily past rows of attentive faces to the carpeted steps in the rear, and the packed standing room. There he paused to take one final look at the stage.
The feeling remained, even at this distance. He stepped past the calcified ushers and reached the lobby. There, in the now empty, carpeted vault that still smelled of cigar smoke and women’s perfume, he halted and lit a fresh cigarette.
He was the only person in the whole deserted lobby. Behind him, through the half-open doors, rang the sounds and voices and the sweet fluttering whirr of a Viennese symphony orchestra. Vaguely irritated, he prowled around. His restlessness remained; and it hadn’t been helped by the quick glare of disapproval that had hardened on Nina’s face. He had seen it before; he knew what it meant. Explanations were going to be needed. He winced at the thought.
How could he explain?
Beyond the lobby of the opera house stretched the night street, sunk in desolate stillness. On the far side were deserted office buildings, black and empty, locked up for the week-end. The entrance of one glowed; a night-light flickered dully. In the concrete well lay heaps of rubbish blown there by the night wind. Posters, scraps of paper, urban trash of various kinds. Even from where he stood, insulated by thick plate glass doors, by the descending flight of concrete steps, by the wide sidewalk and street itself, Cussick could make out the letters on a crumpled poster.
PATRIO
rally a
of the ma
JONES WILL
public invi
Torn across the middle, the poster lay sightlessly sprawled. But for every one that had been ripped down by the police, a thousand still plastered walls, doorways; hung in restaurants, store windows, bars, lavatories, gas stations, schools, offices, private houses. The Pied Piper and his flock . . . the reek of burning gasoline.
When the final thunderous roar of applause burst out, Cussick tensed himself. Already, a few eager people scurried from the open doorways; ushers appeared and rapidly fixed the doors aside. Now the first phalanx of the throng burst forth; laughing and conversing, pulling their wraps around them, the well-dressed citizens of the main floor poured into the lobby, like a jar of expensive costume jewelry abruptly overturned. Down the wide stairs, less elaborately dressed patrons descended. In a moment, Cussick was surrounded by a solid pack of talking, murmuring, noisily gesturing people.
Presently Nina fought her way over to him.
“Hello,” he said uncomfortably.
“What happened?” Nina inquired, half-anxiously, half in exasperation, “Did you ha
ve some sort of fit?”
“Sorry.” It was a difficult thing to explain to her. “That last act scenery reminded me of something. Dismal, like that. People creeping around in the darkness.”
Lightly, Nina said: “Reminded you of business? Police prisons, maybe?” Her voice was tense, sharpened with momentary accusation. “Guilty conscience?”
He felt his face flushing. “No, that isn’t it.” Apparently he answered too loudly; some of the nearby people glanced curiously around. Cussick snapped his jaws angrily together and shoved his hands deep in his pockets. “Let’s talk about it some other time.”
“All right,” Nina said brightly, smiling her familiar flash of white teeth. “No scenes—not tonight.” Agilely, she spun on her heel, taking in the sight of the surrounding clusters of people. The tight line of her forehead showed she was still upset; he had no doubts about that. But the clash was going to be postponed.
“I’m sorry,” Cussick repeated awkwardly. “It’s this damn stuff going on. The dark stage reminded me of it. I always forget that whole scene is set at night.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Nina answered insistently, wanting to drop the subject. Her sharp nails dug quickly into his arm. “What time is it? Is it midnight?”
He examined his wristwatch. “Somewhat after.”
Frowning, Nina peered urgently toward the sidewalk outside. Taxis were sliding into the loading zone, picking up passengers and starting immediately off. “Do you think we missed him? He’d wait, wouldn’t he? I thought I saw him, a second ago, as I was coming out.”
“Isn’t he meeting us at the apartment?” Somehow, he couldn’t imagine Kaminski at a Mozart opera; the round-faced worried man with his thick mustache was from a different century entirely.