“Mary got the joint account,” he said, pondering; he seated himself, lit a cigarette. “I have an idea,” he said at last, “of what I’m going to try. I’d prefer you didn’t hear. Do you understand? Or do I just sound neurotic and fearful?”
“You just sound anxious. And you ought to be.” She rose. “I’ll go out into the hall; I know you want to place a call. While you’re doing that I’ll contact the Ross Police Department and have them come here to dispose of that man in the hopper up above us.” At the door of the apt she lingered, however. “Chuck, I’m glad I was able to keep them from taking you. I barely made it. Where was the hopper going?”
“I’d rather not tell you. For your own protection.”
She nodded. And the door shut after her. Now he was alone.
At once he placed a call to the San Francisco CIA office. It took some time, but at last he was able to trace down his former boss, Jack Elwood. At home with his family, Elwood answered the vidphone with irritation. Nor was he pleased to see who it was.
“I’ll make a deal with you,” Chuck said.
“A deal! We believe you directly or indirectly tipped off Hentman so that he had the opportunity to escape. Isn’t that what happened? We even know whom you worked through: that starlet in Santa Monica that’s Hentman’s current mistress.” Elwood scowled.
This was news to Chuck; he hadn’t realized this about Patty Weaver. However, it hardly mattered now. “The deal,” Chuck said, “that I intend to make with you—with the CIA, officially—is this. I know where Hentman is.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. What does surprise me is that you’re willing to tell us. Why is that, Chuck? A falling-out within the Hentman happy family, with you on the outside?”
“The Hentman organization has already sent one nurt out,” Chuck said. “We were able to stop him but there’ll be another and then another until finally Hentman gets me.” He did not bother to try to explain his difficult situation to Elwood; his former boss wouldn’t believe him and anyhow his wants would remain the same. “I’ll tell you where Hentman is hiding out in exchange for a CIA C-plus ship. An intersystem ship, one of those small military-style pursuit-class vessels. I know you’ve got a few of them; you can spare one, and you’re getting back something of enormous value.” He added, “And I’ll return the ship—eventually. It’s just the use of it that I want.”
“You actually do sound as if you’re trying to get away,” Elwood said with acuity.
“I am.”
“Okay.” Elwood shrugged. “I’ll believe you; why not? And so what? Tell me where Hentman is; I’ll have the ship for you within five hours.”
In other words, Chuck realized, they’ll hold up delivery until they have had a chance to check my information. If Hentman isn’t found, there will be no ship; I’ll be waiting in vain. But it was hopeless to expect the pros of the CIA to operate in any other fashion; this was their business—life for them was one great card game.
Resignedly he said, “Hentman is on Luna, at Brahe City.”
“Wait at your apt,” Elwood said instantly. “The ship will be there by two this morning. If.” He eyed Chuck.
Breaking the connection Chuck went to pick up his burned down cigarette from the edge of the living room coffee table. Well, if the ship did not show up then this was the end; he had no other plans, no alternative solution. Joan Trieste might save him again, might even bring him back after a nurt of Hentman’s had actually killed him… but if he stayed on Terra eventually they would find and destroy him or at the very least capture him: detection devices were simply too good, now. Given sufficient time they always found the target if it were still somewhere on the planet. But Luna, unlike Terra, had uncharted areas; detection there posed a problem. And there existed remote moons and planets where detection, by anyone, was a near impossibility.
One of those areas was the Alpha system. For example Alpha III and its several moons, including M2; most especially M2. And with a CIA faster-than-light ship he could reach it in a matter of days. As had Mary and the gang with her.
Opening the door to the hall he said to Joan, “Okay, I made my one puny call. That’s that.”
“Are you leaving Terra?” Her eyes were enormous and dark.
“We’ll see.” He seated himself, prepared to wait it out.
With great care Joan set the measuring cup of Lord Running Clam’s spores on the arm of the couch by Chuck. “I’ll give these to you. I know you want them; it was you he gave his life for and you feel responsible. Better let me tell you what to do as soon as the spores become active.”
He got pen and paper in order to write down her instructions.
It was actually several hours later—the Ross Police Department had shown up and lugged off the dead man on the roof, and Joan Trieste had departed—that he realized what he had done. Now Bunny Hentman was right; he had betrayed Hentman to the CIA. But he had done it to save his life. That, however, would hardly justify it in Hentman’s eyes; he, too, was trying to save his life.
In any case it was done. He continued to wait, alone in his apt, for the C-plus ship from CIA. A ship which very likely was never going to arrive. And what then? Then, he decided, I’ll be sitting here and waiting for something else, for the next nurt from the Hentman organization. And my life can be measured out in teaspoonfuls.
It was one hell of a long wait.
TEN
Bowing slightly, Gabriel Baines said, “We constitute the sine qua non council possessing overall authority on this world, an ultimate form of authority which can’t be overruled by anyone.” He, with stark, cold politeness, drew back a chair for the Terran psychologist, Dr. Mary Rittersdorf; she accepted it with a brief smile. It seemed to him that she looked tired. The smile showed genuine gratitude.
The other members of the council introduced themselves to Dr. Rittersdorf in their several idiosyncratic fashions.
“Howard Straw. Mans.”
“J-jacob Simion.” Simion could not suppress his moronic grin. “From the Heebs, where your ship set down.”
“Annette Golding. Poly.” Her eyes were alert and she sat erectly, watchful of the female psychologist who had barged into their lives.
“Ingred Hibbler. One, two, three. Ob-Com.”
Dr. Rittersdorf said, “And that would be—” She nodded. “Oh yes, of course. Obsessive-compulsive.”
“Omar Diamond. I will let you guess what clan I am from.” Diamond glanced about remotely; he seemed withdrawn into his private world, much to Gabriel Baines’ annoyance. This was scarcely a time for individual activity, even of a mystical order; this was the moment in which they had to function as a whole or not at all.
In a hollow, despairing voice the Dep spoke up. “Dino Watters.” He struggled to say more, then gave up; the weight of pessimism, of sheer hopelessness, was too great for him. Once more he sat staring down, rubbing his forehead in a miserable tic-like motion.
“And you know who I am, Dr. Rittersdorf,” Baines said, and rattled the document which lay before him; it represented the joint efforts of the council members, their manifesto. “Thank you for coming here!” he began, and cleared his throat; his voice had become husky with tension.
“Thank you for allowing me to,” Dr. Rittersdorf said in a formal but—to him—distinctly menacing tone. Her eyes were opaque.
Baines said, “You have asked to be permitted to visit settlements other than Gandhitown. In particular you requested permission to examine Da Vinci Heights. We have discussed this. We decided to decline.”
Nodding, Dr. Rittersdorf said, “I see.”
“Tell her why,” Howard Straw spoke up. His face was ugly; he had not for an instant taken his eyes from the lady psychologist from Terra: his hatred for her filled the room and tainted the atmosphere. Gabriel Baines felt as if he were choking in it.
Raising her hand Dr. Rittersdorf said, “Wait. Before you read me your statement.” She looked at each of them in turn, a slow, steady and totally professiona
l scrutiny. Howard Straw returned it with malignance. Jacob Simion ducked his head, smiled emptily, letting her attention simply pass. Annette Golding nervously scratched at the cuticle of her thumbnail, her face pale. The Dep never noticed that he was under observation; he never once raised his head. The Skitz, Omar Diamond, returned Mrs. Rittersdorf’s stare with sweet sublimity, yet underneath it, Baines guessed, there was anxiety; Diamond looked as if at any moment he might bolt.
As for himself he found Dr. Mary Rittersdorf physically attractive. And he wondered—idly—if the fact that she had arrived without her husband signified anything. She was, in fact, sexy. As an inexplicable incongruity, considering the purpose of this meeting, Dr. Rittersdorf wore a distinctly feminine outfit: black sweater and skirt, no stockings, gilded slippers with turned-up elfish toes. The sweater, Baines observed, was just a fraction too tight. Did Mrs. Rittersdorf realize this? He could not tell, but in any case he found his attention drawn away from what she was saying to her well-articulated breasts. They were admittedly small but quite distinct as regard to angle. He liked them.
I wonder, he wondered, if this woman—she was, he surmised, in her early thirties, certainly in her physical, nubile prime—if she is looking for something more than professional success, here. He had a powerful affective insight that Dr. Rittersdorf was animated by a personal spirit as well as a task-oriented one; again, she perhaps was not conscious of this. The body, he reflected, possesses ways of its own, sometimes in contradistinction to the purposes of the mind. This morning, on arising, Dr. Rittersdorf might merely have thought that she would like to wear this black sweater, without thinking any more about it. But the body, the well-formed gynecologic apparatus within, knew better.
And to this an analogous portion of himself responded. However in his case it was a conscious reaction. And, he thought, perhaps this can be turned to our group’s advantage. This dimension of involvement might not be the liability for us that it surely is for our antagonists. Thinking this he felt himself slide into a posture of contrived defense; he had schemes, automatic and plentiful, by which to protect not only himself but also his colleagues.
“Dr. Rittersdorf,” he said smoothly, “before we could permit you to enter our several settlements, a delegation representing our clans would have to inspect your ship to see what armaments—if any—you have along with you. Anything else is unworthy of even cursory consideration.”
“We’re not armed,” Dr. Rittersdorf said.
“Nevertheless,” Gabriel Baines said, “I propose to you that you allow me and perhaps one other individual here to accompany you to your base. I have a proclamation here”—he rattled the manifesto—“which calls for your ship to vacate Gandhitown within forty-eight Terran hours. If you don’t comply—” He glanced at Straw, who nodded. “We will initiate military operations against you on the grounds that you are hostile, uninvited invaders.”
In a low, modulated voice Dr. Rittersdorf said, “I understand your comprehension. You’ve lived here in isolation for quite a time. But—” She was speaking directly to him; her fine, intelligent eyes confronted him purposefully. “I am afraid I have to call attention to a fact which you all may find distasteful. You are, individually and collectively, mentally ill.”
There was a taut, prolonged silence.
“Hell,” Straw said to no one in particular, “we blew that place sky high years ago. That so-called ‘hospital.’ Which was really a concentration camp.” His lips twisted. “For purposes of slave labor.”
“I am sorry to say it,” Dr. Rittersdorf said, “but you are wrong; it was a legitimate hospital, and you must include the realization of this as a factor in any plans you might make regarding us. I’m not lying to you; I’m speaking the plain, simple truth.”
“‘Quid est veritas?’” Baines murmured.
“Pardon?” Dr. Rittersdorf said.
Baines said, “‘What is truth?’ Hasn’t it occurred to you, Doctor, that in the last decade we here might have risen above our initial problems of group adaptation and become—” He gestured. “Adjusted? Or whatever term you prefer… in any case capable of possessing adequate interpersonal relationships, such as you’re witnessing here in this chamber. Surely if we can work together we are not sick. There’s no other test you can apply except that of group-workability.” He sat back, pleased with himself.
With care Dr. Rittersdorf said, “You are, admittedly, unified against a common enemy… against us. But—I’d be willing to place a bet that before we arrived, and again after we depart, you will fragment into isolated individuals, mistrustful and frightened of one another, unable to collaborate.” She smiled disarmingly, but it was far too wise a smile for him to accept; it too much underscored her very clever statement.
Because of course she was right; she had put her finger on it. They did not function together regularly. But—she was also wrong.
This was her error. She supposed, probably as a matter of self-justifying protection, that the origin of the fear and hostility lay with the council. But in fact it was Terra who displayed menacing tactics; the landing of their ship was de facto a hostile act… were it not, an attempt would have been made to secure permission. These Terrans themselves had manifested initial distrust; they alone were responsible for the present pattern of mutual suspicion. Had they wanted to they could readily have avoided it.
“Dr. Rittersdorf,” he said bluntly, “the Alphane traders contact us when they want permission to land. We notice that you did not. And we have no problems in our dealings with them; we trade back and forth on a regular, constant basis.”
Obviously his gauntlet had been thrown down to good effect; the woman hesitated, did not have an answer. While she pondered, everyone in the room rustled with amusement, contempt, and, as in the case of Howard Straw, pitiless animosity.
“We assumed,” Dr. Rittersdorf said at last, “that had we formally requested permission to land you would have refused us.”
Smiling, feeling calm, Baines said, “But you didn’t try. You ‘assumed.’ And now, of course, you’ll never know, because—”
“Would you have granted us permission?” Her voice snapped at him, firm and authoritative, penetrating and shattering the continuity of his utterance; he blinked, involuntarily paused. “No, you wouldn’t have,” she continued. “And all of you know it. Please try to be realistic.”
“If you show up at Da Vinci Heights,” Howard Straw said, “We’ll kill you. In fact if you don’t leave we’ll kill you. And the next ship that tries to land will never touch ground. This is our world and we plan to retain it as long as we survive. Mr. Baines here can recite the details of your original imprisonment of us; it’s all contained in the manifesto which he and I— with the help of the others in this room—prepared. Read the manifesto, Mr. Baines.”
“Twenty-five years ago,’” Gabriel Baines began, “‘a colony was established on this planet—’”
Dr. Rittersdorf sighed. “Our knowledge of the assorted patterns of your mental illnesses—”
“‘Sordid’?” Howard Straw burst in. “Did you say ‘sordid’?” His face was mottled with dire rage; he half-rose from his chair.
“I said assorted,” Dr. Rittersdorf said patiently. “Our knowledge informs us that the focus of your militant activity will be found in the Mans settlement—in other words, the manic group’s settlement. Four hours from now we will break camp and leave the hebephrenic settlement of Gandhitown; we will set down in Da Vinci Heights and if you engage us in combat we’ll bring in line-class Terran military forces.” She added, “Which are standing by approximately half an hour from here.”
Again there was a taut and prolonged silence in the room.
Annette Golding at last spoke up, but barely audibly. “Read our manifesto anyhow, Gabriel.”
Nodding, he resumed. But his voice shook.
Annette Golding began to cry, miserably, interrupting his reading. “You can see what’s in store for us; they’re going to turn us b
ack into hospital patients again. It’s the end.”
Uncomfortably, Dr. Rittersdorf said, “We’re going to provide therapy for you. It’ll cause you to feel more—well, relaxed with one another. More yourselves. Life will take on a more pleasant, natural significance; as it is you’re all oppressed with such strain and fears…”
“Yes,” Jacob Simion muttered. “Fears that Terra will break in here and round us up like a lot of animals again.”
Four hours, Gabriel Baines thought. Not long. His voice trembling, he resumed the reading of their joint manifesto.
It seemed to him an empty gesture. Because there is just exactly nothing, he realized, that is going to save us.
After the meeting had ended—and Dr. Rittersdorf had departed—Gabriel Baines laid his plan before his colleagues.
“You’re what?” Howard Straw demanded with contemptuous derision, his face made into a parody of itself by his grimace. “You say you’re going to seduce her? My god, maybe she’s right; maybe we ought to be in a neuro-psychiatric hospital!” He sat back and wheezed bleakly to himself. His disgust was too great; he could make no further motions of abuse—he left that to the others in the room.
“You must think a lot of yourself,” Annette Golding said, finally.
“What I need,” Gabriel said, “is someone with enough telepathic ability to tell me if I’m right.” He turned to Jacob Simion. “Doesn’t that Heeb saint, that Ignatz Ledebur, have at least a little capacity for telepathy? He’s sort of a jack-of-all trades, Psi talentwise.”
“None that I know of,” Simion said. “But you might, you just might try Sarah Apostoles.” He winked at Gabriel, shaking his head in mirth.
“I’ll phone Gandhitown,” Gabriel Baines said, picking up the phone.
Simion said, “The phone-lines in Gandhitown are out again. For six days now. You’ll have to go there.”