“I suggest you call one of the inter-system transport fields, sir,” the operator said.
“All I’ve got is fifty bucks!”
“I’m sorry, sir. I can connect you with one of the fields if you wish.”
He hung up.
There was no point staying in the house, but he lingered long enough to type out a note—a note with a vengeance. He left the note in the middle of the coffee table, where Gretchen would be sure to see it.
Dear Mrs. Coates,
You remember Molly. Damned if I didn’t run into her at the Brass Poker. Says she’s pregnant, but you know how that kind are. Think I better stay with her until we can get her a you-know-what. Expensive, but it’s the price you pay.
He signed it Johnny and then left the house.
Other World had plenty of roving taxis, and within five minutes he was in the downtown business district with its lights and flow of people.
At the space port a full-size ship stood upright on its tail. He guessed, with almost frenzied despair, that it was in the process of leaving for the next system. A line of supply trucks dashed back and forth; the ship was already in the final stages of loading.
Paying off the taxi, he tramped across the gravel parking lot of the field, down, the street until he arrived at a syndrome of life: a restaurant doing an active business, full of patrons and noise and chatter. Feeling like a fool he buttoned his coat up around him and strode through the doorway to the cashier.
“Put up your hands, lady,” he said, jutting out his pocket. “Before I put a McAllister heat beam through your head.”
The girl gasped, raised her hands, opened her mouth and gave a terrified bleat. Patrons at nearby tables glanced up in disbelief.
“Okay,” Allen said, in a normally-loud voice. “Now let’s have the money. Push it across the counter before I blow out your brains with my McAllister heat beam.”
“Oh dear,” the girl said.
From behind him two Other World police wearing helmets and crisp blue uniforms appeared and grabbed his arms. The girl flopped out of sight and Allen’s hand was yanked from his pocket.
“A noose,” one cop said. “A super-noose. It’s troublemakers like this ruin a clean neighborhood.”
“Let go of me,” Allen said. “Before I blow off your heads with my McAllister heat beam.”
“Buddy,” one of the cops said, as they dragged him from the restaurant, “this cancels the Resort’s obligations to succor you. You’ve shown your unreliability by committing a felony.”
“I’ll blow all of you to bits,” Allen said, as they bundled him into the police car. “This heat beam talks.”
“Get his ident.” A cop snatched Allen’s wallet. “John B. Coates. 2319 Pepper Lane. Well, Mr. Coates, you’ve had your chance. Now you’re on your way back to Morec. How does that sound?”
“You won’t live to send me back,” Allen said. The car was sprinting toward the field, and the big ship was still there. “I’ll get you. You’ll see.”
The car, flying a foot above the gravel, turned onto the field and made directly for the ship. The siren came on; field attendants stopped work and watched.
“Tell them to hold it,” one of the cops said. He got out a microphone and contacted the field’s tower. “Another super-noose. Open up the fleebee.”
In a matter of seconds the car had come alongside the ship, the doors had united, and Allen was in the hands of the ship’s sheriff.
“Welcome back to Morec,” a run-down fellow super-noose muttered, as Allen was deposited beside him in the restricted area.
“Thanks,” Allen said, with relief. “It’s good to be back.” Now he was wondering if he would reach Earth by Sunday. On Monday morning his job at Telemedia started. Had he lost too much time?
Whoosh, the floor went. The ship was rising.
15
The trip began Wednesday night, and by Sunday night he was back on Earth. The notation was arbitrary, of course, but the interval was real. Tired, sweaty, Allen emerged from the ship and back into the Morec society.
The field was not far from the Spire and his housing unit, but he balked at the idea of walking. It seemed unnecessarily strict; the supplicants in Other World showed no sign of degeneracy because they rode busses. Going into a phone booth at the field he called Janet.
“Oh!” she gasped. “They released you? You’re—all right?”
He asked: “What did Malparto tell you?”
“They said you had gone to Other World for treatment. They said you might be there several weeks.”
Now it made even more sense. In several weeks he would have lost his directorship and his status in the Morec world. After that it wouldn’t matter if he discovered the hoax or not; without a lease, without a job, he would fairly well have to remain on Vega 4.
“Did he say anything about you joining me?”
There was a hasty flutter from the phone. “Y-yes, he did. He said you’d adjust to Other World, but if you couldn’t adjust to this, then—”
“I didn’t adjust to Other World. Just a lot of people lounging around sun-bathing. Is that Getabout still there? The one I rented?”
Janet, it developed, had returned the Getabout to the rental outfit. The charge was steep, and the Health Resort had already begun to tap his salary. Somehow that seemed to complete the outrage: the Resort, in the guise of helping him, had kidnapped him, and then billed him for services rendered.
“I’ll get another.” He started to hang up, then asked: “Has Mrs. Frost been around?”
“She phoned several times.”
That sounded ominous. “What’d you tell her? That my mind gave out and I fled to the Resort?”
“I said you were winding up your affairs and couldn’t be disturbed.” Janet breathed huskily into the phone, deafening him. “Allen, I’m so glad you’re back. I was so worried.”
“How many pills did you swallow?”
“Well, quite a few. I—couldn’t sleep.”
He hung up, dug out another quarter, and dialed Sue Frost’s personal number. After a time she answered…the familiar calm, dignified voice.
“This is Allen,” he said. “Allen Purcell. I just wanted to check with you. Things coming along all right at your end?”
“Mr. Purcell,” she said harshly, “be at my apartment in ten minutes. This an order is!”
Click.
He stared at the dead phone. Then he left the phone booth and started walking.
The Frost apartment directly overlooked the Spire, as did the apartments of all Committee Secretaries. Allen took a reassuring breath and then climbed the stairs. A clean shirt, a bath, and a long rest would have helped, but there was no time for luxuries. And he could, of course, pass his appearance off as the effects of a week or so spent closing down business; he had been slaving night and day at the Agency, trying to get all the loose ends to come out. With that in mind he rang Mrs. Frost’s doorbell.
“Come in.” She stood aside and he entered. In the single room sat Myron Mavis looking weary, and Ida Pease Hoyt looking grim and formal.
“Hello,” Allen said, with a strong sense of doom.
“Now,” Mrs. Frost said, coming around in front of him. “Where have you been? You weren’t at your Agency; we checked there a number of times. We even sent a bonded representative to sit in with your staff. A Mr. Priar is operating Allen Purcell, Inc. during your absence.”
Allen wondered if he should lie or tell the truth. He decided to lie. The Morec society couldn’t bear the truth; it would punish him and keep on going. And somebody else would be named Director of T-M, a creature of Blake-Moffet.
“Harry Priar is acting administrator,” he said. “As Myron here is acting Director of T-M until I take over. Are you trying to say I’ve been on salary the last week?” That certainly wasn’t so. “The understanding was clear enough: I go to work next Monday, tomorrow. This past week has been my own. T-M has no more claim over me this past week than it had last year.
”
“The point—” Mrs. Frost began, and then the doorbell sounded. “Excuse me. This should be them now.”
When the door opened Tony Blake from Blake-Moffet entered. Behind him was Fred Luddy, a briefcase under his arm. “Good evening, Sue,” Tony Blake said agreeably. He was a portly, well-dressed man in his late fifties, with snow-white hair and rimless glasses. “Evening, Myron. This is an honor, Mrs. Hoyt. Evening, Allen. Glad to see you back.”
Luddy said nothing. They all seated themselves, facing one another, swapping tension and hauteur. Allen was acutely aware of his baggy suit and unstarched shirt; by the minute he looked less like an overworked businessman and more like a college radical from the Age of Waste.
“To continue,” Mrs. Frost said. “Mr. Purcell, you were not at your Agency as your wife told us. At first we were puzzled, because we believed there was going to be mutual confidence between us. It seemed odd that a situation of this sort, with you dropping mysteriously out of sight, and these vague evasions and denials by your—”
“Now look here,” Allen said. “You’re not addressing a metazoon and a mammal; you’re addressing a human being who’s a citizen of the Morec society. Either you speak to me civilly or I leave now. I’m tired and I’d like to get some sleep. I’ll leave it up to you.”
Curtly, Mrs. Hoyt said: “He’s quite right, Sue. Stop playing boss, and for heaven’s sake get that righteous look off your face. Leave that to God.”
“Perhaps you don’t have confidence in me,” Mrs. Frost answered, turning. “Should we settle that first?”
Sprawled out in his chair, Myron Mavis snickered. “Yes, I’d like this one better. Do settle it first, Sue.”
Mrs. Frost became flustered. “Really, this whole thing is getting out of hand. Why don’t I fix coffee?” She arose. “And there’s a little brandy, if nobody feels it’s contrary to public interest.”
“We’re sinking,” Mavis said, grinning across at Allen. “Glub, glub. Under the waves of sin.”
The tension ebbed and both Blake and Luddy began shuffling, conferring, murmuring. Luddy put on his horn-rimmed glasses and two serious heads were bent over the contents of his briefcase. Mrs. Frost went to the hotplate and put on the coffee-maker. Still seated, Mrs. Hoyt regarded a spot on the floor and spoke to no one. As always, she wore heavy furs, dark stockings, and low-heeled shoes. Allen had a great deal of respect for her; he knew her for an adroit manipulator.
“You’re related to Major Streiter,” he said. “Isn’t that what I’ve heard?”
Mrs. Hoyt favored him with a look. “Yes, Mr. Purcell. The Major was a progenitor on my father’s side.”
“Terrible about the statue,” Blake put in. “Imagine an outbreak like that. It defies description.”
Allen had forgotten about the statue. And the head. It was still in the closet, unless Janet had done something with it. No wonder she had gulped down bottles of pills: the head had been there with her, all during the week.
“They’ll catch him,” Luddy said, with vigor. “Or them. Personally it’s my conviction that an organized gang is involved.”
“There’s something almost satanic in it,” Sue Frost said. “Stealing the head, that way. Coming back a few days later and—right in front of the police—stealing it and taking it heaven knows where. I wonder if it’ll ever turn up.” She located cups and saucers.
When the coffee had been served, the discussion took up where it had left off. But moderation prevailed. Cooler heads were at work.
“Certainly there’s no reason to quarrel,” Mrs. Frost said. “I suppose I was upset. Honestly, Allen, look at the spot you put us in. Last Sunday—a week ago—I picked up the phone and called your apartment; I wanted to catch you with your wife so we could decide on our Juggle evening.”
“I’m sorry,” Allen murmured, scrutinizing the wall and mentally twiddling his thumbs. In some ways this was the worst part, the rhetoric of apology.
“Would you like to tell us what happened?” Mrs. Frost continued. Her savoir-faire had returned, and she smiled with her usual grace and charm. “Consider this a friendly inquiry. We’re all your friends, even Mr. Luddy.”
“What’s the Blake-Moffet team doing here?” he asked. “I can’t see how this concerns them. Maybe I’m being overly blunt, but this seems to be a matter between you and me and Mrs. Hoyt.”
A pained exchange of glances informed him that there was more to it. As if the presence of Blake and Luddy hadn’t said that already.
“Come on, Sue,” Mrs. Hoyt rumbled in her gravelly voice.
“When we couldn’t get in touch with you,” Mrs. Frost went on, “we had a conference and we decided to sit on it. After all, you’re a grown man. But then Mr. Blake called us. T-M has done a great deal of business with Blake-Moffet over the years, and we all know one another. Mr. Blake showed us some disturbing material, and we—”
“What material?” Allen demanded. “Let’s have a look at it.”
Blake answered. “It’s here, Purcell. Don’t get upset; all in due time.” He tossed some papers over, and Allen caught them. While he examined them Mrs. Frost said:
“I’d like to ask you, Allen. As a personal friend. Never mind those papers; I’ll tell you what it is. You haven’t separated from your wife, have you? You haven’t had a quarrel you’d rather keep quiet, something that’s come up between you that means a more or less permanent altercation?”
“Is that what this is about?” He felt as if he had been dipped in sheer cold. It was one of those eternal blind alleys that Morec worriers got themselves into. Divorce, scandal, sex, other women—the whole confused gamut of marital difficulty.
“Naturally,” Mrs. Hoyt said, “it would be incumbent on you to refuse the directorship under such circumstances. A man in such a high position of trust—well, you’re familiar with the rest.”
The papers in his hands danced in a jumble of words, phrases, dates and locations. He gave up and tossed them aside. “And Blake’s got documentation on this?” They were after him, but they had got themselves onto a false lead. Luckily for him. “Let’s hear it.”
Blake cleared his throat and said: “Two weeks ago you worked alone at your Agency. At eight-thirty you locked up and left. You walked at random, entered a commissary, then returned to the Agency and took a ship.”
“What then?” He wondered how far they had gone.
“Then you eluded pursuit. We, ah, weren’t equipped to follow.”
“I went to Hokkaido. Ask my block warden. I drank three glasses of wine, came home, fell on the front steps. It’s all a matter of record; I was brought up and exonerated.”
“So.” Blake nodded. “Well, then. It’s our contention that you met a woman; that you had met her before; that you have willingly and knowingly committed adultery with this woman.”
“Thus collapses the juvenile system,” Allen said bitterly. “Here ends empirical evidence. Back comes witch-burning. Hysterics and innuendo.”
“You left your Agency,” Blake continued, “on Tuesday of that week, to make a phone call from a public booth. It was a call you couldn’t make in your office, for fear of being overheard.”
“To this girl?” They were ingenious, at least. And they probably believed it. “What’s the girl’s name?”
“Grace Maldini,” Blake said. “About twenty-four years old, standing five-foot-five, weighing about one twenty-five. Dark hair, dark skin, presumably of Italian extraction.”
It was Gretchen, of course. Now he was really perplexed.
“On Thursday morning you were two hours late to work. You walked off and were lost along the commute lanes. You deliberately chose routes through the thickest traffic.”
“Conjection,” Allen said. But it had been true; he was on his way to the Health Resort. Grace Maldini? What on earth was that about?
“On Saturday morning of that week,” Blake continued, “you did the same thing. You shook off anybody who might have been following you and met this gi
rl at an unknown point. You did not return to your apartment that day. That night, a week ago yesterday, you boarded an inter-S ship in the company of the girl, who registered herself as Miss Grace Maldini. You registered under the name John Coates. When the ship reached Centaurus, you and the girl transferred to a second ship, and again you shook monitoring. You did not return to Earth during the entire week. It was within that period that your wife described you as ‘completing work at your Agency.’ This evening, about thirty minutes ago, you stepped off an inter-S ship, dressed as you are now, entered a phone booth, and then came here.”
They were all looking at him, waiting with interest. This was an ultimate block meeting: avid curiosity, the need to hear every lurid detail. And, with that, the solemn Morec of duty.
At least he knew how he had been gotten from Earth to Other World. Malparto’s therapeutic drugs had kept him docile, while Gretchen thought up names and made the arrangements. Four days in her company: the first emergence of John Coates.
“Produce the girl,” Allen said.
Nobody spoke.
“Where is she?” They could look forever for Grace Maldini. And without her it was so much hearsay. “Let’s see her. Where does she live? What’s her lease? Where does she work? Where is she right now?”
Blake produced a photograph, and Allen examined it. A blurred print: he and Gretchen seated side by side in large chairs. Gretchen was reading a magazine and he was asleep. Taken on the ship, no doubt, from the other end of the lounge.
“Incredible,” he mocked. “There I am, and a woman’s sitting next to me.”
Myron Mavis took the picture, studied it, and sneered. “Not worth a cent. Not worth the merest particle of a rusty Mexican cent. Take it back.”
Mrs. Hoyt said thoughtfully: “Myron’s right. This isn’t proof of anything.”
“Why did you assume the name Coates?” Luddy spoke up. “If you’re so innocent—”
“Prove that, too,” Mavis said. “This is ridiculous. I’m going home; I’m tired, and Purcell looks tired. Tomorrow is Monday and you know what that means for all of us.”