Nat put his arm around her.
'What's that for?' she demanded.
'Nothing in particular. I just felt fond of you, all of a sudden. I'd be fond of anything, right now, that wasn't damp and squishy.' He hugged her briefly. 'Don't I make you feel a little better?'
'No.' Molly said. 'Or maybe yes; I don't know.' She sounded irritable. 'Go on up on to the porch, for chrissakes, and knock!' Pulling away from him she gave him a push forward.
Nat ascended the sagging wooden steps, on to the porch, and rang the doorbell.
'I feel sick,' Molly said. 'Why is that?'
'The humidity.' Nat found it overwhelming, oppressive; he could hardly breathe. He wondered what the weather would do to the Ganymedean life form which was his recording apparatus; it liked moisture and so perhaps it would flourish, here. Perhaps the Ampek F-a2 could even live here on its own, survive in the rain forest indefinitely. This environment, he realized, is more alien to us than Mars would be. It was a sobering thought Mars and Tijuana ... closer than Jenner and Tijuana. Ecologically speaking.
The door opened. A woman wearing a pale yellow smock faced him, stood blocking the entrance and regarding him quietly, her brown eyes calm but oddly wary.
'Mrs. Kongrosian?' he said. Beth Kongrosian was not bad looking. Her hair, tied back with a ribbon, was light brown, long; she might have been in her late twenties or early thirties. In any case she was slender and she stood well. He found himself studying her with respect and interest.
'You're from the recording studio?' Her voice, low, had a toneless quality, a peculiar lack of affect. 'Mr Dondoldo phoned and said you were on your way. It's a shame. You can come inside if you want, but Richard isn't here.' She held the door wide, then. 'Richard is in the hospital, down in San Francisco.'
Christ, he thought. What lousy, miserable luck. He turned to Molly and they exchanged glances mutely.
'Please come in,' Beth Kongrosian said. 'Let me fix you coffee or dinner or something before you turn around and start back; it's such a long way.'
Nat said to Molly, 'Go back and tell Jim. I'd like to take Mrs Kongrosian up on her offer; I could use a cup of coffee.'
Turning, Molly started back down the steps.
'You look tired,' Beth Kongrosian said. 'Are you Mr Flieger? I wrote the name down; Mr Dondoldo gave it to me. I know Richard would have been glad to record for you, if he were here; that's why it's all such a shame.' She led him into the living room. It was dark and cool, crowded with wicker furniture, but at least dry. 'A drink,' she said. 'What about gin and tonic? Or I have Scotch. What about Scotch on the rocks?'
'Just coffee,' Nat said. 'Thanks.' He inspected a photograph on the wall; it showed him a scene in which a man swung a small baby on a tall metal swing. 'Is this your son?'
The woman, however, had gone.
He looked closer. The baby in the photograph had the chupper jaw.
Behind him, Molly and Jim Planck appeared. He waved them over, and they both examined the picture.
'Music,' Nat said. 'I wonder if they have any music.'
'They can't sing,' Molly said. 'How could they sing if they can't talk?' She walked away from the picture and stood with her arms folded, looking through the living room window at the palm tree outside. 'What an ugly tree.' She turned to Nat. 'Don't you agree?'
'I think,' he said, 'that there's room in the world for life of every kind.'
Jim Planck said quietly, 'I agree.'
Returning to the living room, Beth Kongrosian said to Jim Planck and Molly, 'What would you two like? Coffee? A drink? Something to eat?'
They conferred.
At his office in the Administration Building of Karp u. Sohnen Werke, Detroit Branch, Vince Strikerock received a phone call from his wife -- or rather his ex-wife -- Julie. Now Julie Applequist again, as she had been when he first met her. Looking lovely but worried and wildly distracted, Julie said, 'Vince, that goddam brother of yours he's gone.' Wide-eyed, she gazed at him beseechingly. 'I don't know what to do.'
He said in a deliberate, calming voice, 'Gone where, Julie?'
'I think -- ' She choked over the words. 'Vince, he left me to emigrate; we talked about emigrating and I didn't want to, and I know he's gone ahead alone. He was determined to; I realize that now. I just didn't take it seriously enough.' Tears filled her eyes.
Behind Vince, his superior appeared. 'Herr Anton Karp wants to see you in Suite Four. As soon as possible.' He glared at the screen, recognizing this as a personal call.
'Julie,' Vince said clumsily, 'I have to get off the line.'
'Okay,' she said, nodding. 'But do something for me. Find Chic. Won't you please? I'll never ask you for anything else again. I promise. I just have to have him back.'
I knew it wouldn't work out between you two, Vince said to himself. He experienced grim relish. Too bad, dear, he thought. Tough! You made a mistake; I know Chic and I know that women like you petrify him. You scared him into running, and he'll never stop or look back, now that he's begun. Because it's a one-way trip.
Aloud, he said, 'I'll do what I can.'
'Thanks, Vince,' she breathed tearfully. 'Even if I don't actively love you any more I still -- '
'Goodbye,' he said, and rang off.
A moment later he was ascending by elevator to Suite Four.
As soon as Anton Karp spied him Karp said, 'Herr Strikerock, I understand that your brother is employed by a miserably tiny firm by the name of Frauenzimmer Associates. Is that correct?' Karp's heavy, sombre face was twisted with tension.
'Yes,' Vince said slowly, with great caution. 'But -- ' He hesitated. Obviously if Chic was emigrating he would be leaving his job; he could hardly take it with him.
What didKarp want? Better be on the safe side and not say anything unnecessary. 'But, um ... '
Karp said, 'Can he get you in there?'
Blinking, Vince said, 'Y-you mean on the premises? As a visitor? Or do you mean -- ' He could feel apprehension mounting inside him as the cold blue eyes of the middleaged German ersatz industrialist bored into him. 'I don't quite understand, Herr Karp,' he mumbled.
'Today,' Karp said in a brisk, harsh staccato, 'the government let the simulacrum contract to Herr Frauenzimmer. We have studied the situation and our response is dictated by circumstances themselves. Because of this order, Frauenzimmer will expand; he will take on new employees. I want you, through your brother, to go to work for them, as soon as you can arrange it. Possibly today.'
Vince stared at him.
'What's the matter?' Karp said.
'I'm -- surprised,' Vince managed to say.
'As soon as Frauenzimmer's taken you on, inform me direct; don't talk to anyone else but me.' Karp paced about the large carpeted room, scratching his nose vigorously.
'We'll tell you what to do next. That's all for now, Herr Strikerock.'
'Does it matter what I do there?' Vince asked weakly. 'I mean, is it important exactly what my job is?'
'No,' Karp said.
Vince left the suite; the door at once slid shut after him.
He stood alone in the corridor, trying to reassemble his scattered, disorganized faculties. My god, he thought. They want me to throw my sabots into Frauenzimmer's assembly line; I know it. Sabotage or spying, one or the other; anyhow something illegal, something that'll bring the NP down on me -- me, not the Karps.
My own brother's outfit, too, he said to himself.
He felt utterly impotent. They could make him do anything they wanted; all the Karps had to do was lift their little finger.
And I'll give in, he realized.
He returned to his own office, shakily seated himself with the door shut; alone, he sat silently at his desk, smoking an ersatz-tobacco cigar and pondering. His hands, he discovered, were numb.
I've got to get out of here, he told himself. I'm not going to be a petty, minuscule, cipher-type minion for the Karp Werke -- it'll kill me.
He crushed his non-tobacco cigar out.
&nb
sp; Where can I go? He asked himself.
Where? I need help.
Who can I get it from? There was that doctor. That he and Chic had been going to see.
Picking up the phone he signalled Karp's switchboard operator. 'Get me Dr Egon Superb,' he instructed her, 'that one analyst that's left.'
After that he sat miserably at his desk, the phone against his ear. Waiting.
Nicole Thibodeaux thought, I've got too much to do. I'm attempting to conduct delicate, tricky negotiations with Hermann Goering, I've instructed Garth McRae to let the new der Alte contract to a small firm and not to Karp, I have to decide what to do if Richard Kongrosian is ever found again, there's the McPhearson Act and that last analyst, Dr Superb, and now this. Now the NP's hasty decision -- made without even attempting to consult me or notify me in advance -- to move in on Loony Luke's jalopy lots in dead earnest.
Unhappily, she studied the police order which had gone out to every NP unit throughout the USEA.
This isn't in ourinterest, she decided. I can't afford to attack Luke because I simply can't get at him. We'll only look absurd.
And -- we'll look like a totalitarian society. Kept in existence only by our enormous military and police establishments.
Glancing up swiftly at Wilder Pembroke, Nicole said, 'Have you actually found the lot, yet? The one in San Francisco where you can imagine -- merely imagine -- Richard is?'
'No. We haven't found it yet.' Pembroke mopped his forehead nervously; quite clearly he was under heavy strain.
'If there had been time of course I would have consulted you. But once he takes off for Mars -- '
'Better to lose him than to move prematurely against Luke!' She had a good deal of respect for Luke; she had known him, and his operations, for a good long time. She had seen him easily evade the City Police.
'I have an interesting report from the Karp Werke.' Obviously Pembroke was now desperately trying to switch the topic under discussion. 'They've decided to penetrate the Frauenzimmer organization in order to -- '
'Later.' Nicole scowled at him. 'You know now you've made a mistake. Really, down underneath, I enjoy those jalopy jungles; they're amusing. You simply can't fathom that; you've got a cop's mind. Call your San Francisco unit and tell them to release the lot if they've found it. And if they haven't found it, tell them to give up. Bring them back in and forget about it; when the time arrives to proceed against Luke I'll tell you.'
'Harold Slezak agreed -- '
'Slezak doesn't make policy. I'm surprised you didn't get Rudi Kalbfleisch's approval on this. That would have been even more like you NP people. I really don't like you, I find you unsavoury.' She stared at him until he shrank back.
'Well?' she said. 'Say something.'
With dignity, Pembroke said, 'They haven't found the lot, so no harm has been done.' He flicked on his com system.
'Give up on the lots,' he said into it. At this moment he did not look very imposing; he was still perspiring freely.
'Forget the whole damn thing. Yes, that's right.' He clicked the system off and raised his head to face Nicole.
'You should be busted,' Nicole said.
'Anything else, Mrs Thibodeaux?' Pembroke's voice was wooden.
'No. Scram.'
Pembroke with measured, stiff steps, departed.
Looking at her wristwatch, Nicole saw that the time was eight P.M. And what had been planned for this evening? Shortly she would be going on TV with another Visit to the White House, the seventy-fifth of the year. Had Janet lined up anything and if so had Slezak managed to bumble through to an adequate schedule? Probably not.
She walked through the White House to Janet Raimer's tidy office. 'Do you have anything spectacular coming along?' she demanded.
Rattling her notes, Janet frowned and said. 'One act I'd call truly astonishing -- a jug act. Classical. Duncan & Miller; I watched them at The Abraham Lincoln and they're terrific.' She smiled hopefully.
Nicole groaned.
'They really are quite good.' Janet's voice was insistent, now. Commanding. 'It's relaxing: I'd like you to please give it a try. That's either for tonight or tomorrow, I'm not certain which Slezak scheduled it for.'
'Jug acts,' Nicole said. 'We've gone from Richard Kongrosian to that. I'm beginning to think we should let Bertold Goltz take over. And to think that in the Days of Barbarism they had Kirsten Flagstad to entertain them.'
'Maybe things will pick up when the next der Alte takes office,' Janet said.
Regarding her keenly, Nicole said, 'How is it that you know about that?'
'Everybody in the White House is talking about it. Anyhow,' Janet Raimer bristled, 'I'm a Ge.'
'How wonderful,' Nicole said sardonically. 'Then you must lead a truly delightful life.'
'May I ask what this next der Alte will be like?'
'Old,' Nicole said. Old and tired, she thought to herself. A worn-out stringbean, stiff and formal, full of moralizing speeches; a real leader type who can drum obedience into the Be masses. Who can keep the system creaking along a while longer. And, according to the von Lessinger technicians he will be the final der Alte.
At least, most likely.
And they are not certain quite why. We seem to have a chance but it is a small one. Time, and the dialectic forces of history are on the side of -- the worst creature possible. That vulgar buttinski, Bertold Goltz.
However, the future was not fixed and there was always room for the unexpected, the improbable; everyone who had handled von Lessinger equipment understood that ... time travel was still merely an art, not an exact science.
'He will be called,' Nicole said, 'Dieter Hogben.'
Janet giggled. 'Oh no, not actually "Dieter Hogben", or is it "Hogbein"? What in the world are you trying to achieve?'
'He will be very dignified,' Nicole said stiffly.
There was a sudden noise behind her; she turned and found herself facing Wilder Pembroke, the NP man. Pembroke looked agitated but pleased. 'Mrs Thibodeaux, we've caught Richard Kongrosian. As Dr Superb predicted, he was at a jalopy jungle preparing to depart for Mars. Shall we bring him to the White House? The San Francisco squad is waiting for instructions; they're still at the lot.'
'I'll go there,' Nicole decided, on impulse. And ask him, she said to herself, to give up the idea of emigrating. Voluntarily. I know I can persuade him -- we won't have to resort to blunt force.'
'He says he's invisible,' Pembroke said, as he and Nicole hurried along the White House corridor towards the offtrans field on the roof. 'The squad however says he appears perfectly visible, at least to them.'
'Another of his delusions,' Nicole said. 'We ought to be able to clear that right up; I'll tell him he's visible and that will be that.'
'And his smell -- '
'Oh, the hell with it,' Nicole said. 'I'm tired of his ailments. I'm tired of having him pamper himself in his hypochondriacal obsessions. I'm going to toss the entire power and majesty and authority of the state at him, tell him pointblank that he's got to give his imaginary diseases up.'
'I wonder what that will do to him,' Pembroke mused.
'He'll comply, of course,' Nicole said. 'He won't have any choice; that's the whole point -- I'm not asking him, I'm going to tell him.'
Pembroke glanced at her, then shrugged.
'We've fooled around with this too long,' Nicole said.
'Smell or not, invisible or not, Kongrosian is an employee of the White House; he's got to appear on schedule and perform, or else. He can't sneak away to Mars or Franklin Aimes or Jenner or anywhere else.'
'Yes ma'am,' Pembroke said hollowly, preoccupied with his own convoluted thoughts.
When Ian Duncan reached Jalopy Jungle Number Three in downtown San Francisco he found that he was too late to warn Al. Because the NP had already arrived; he saw parked police cars and grey-clad NP men swarming over the lot.
'Let me out here,' he instructed his auto-cab. He was a block away from the lot; that was close enough.
/> He paid the cab and then set out, warily, on foot. A small knot of curious passers-by with nothing else to do had formed, and Ian Duncan joined them, rubber-necking at the NP men, pretending to wonder why they were there.
'What's up?' the man next to Ian asked him. 'I thought they weren't going to crack down on these jalopy lots yet. I thought -- '
'Must be a change in govpol,' the woman on Ian's left said.
' "Govpol," ' the man echoed, puzzled.
'A Ge term,' the woman said haughtily. 'Government policy.'
'Oh,' the man said. He nodded meekly.
Ian said to him, 'Now you know a Ge term.'
'That's so.' The man perked up. 'So I do.'
'I knew a Ge term, once,' Ian said. He caught sight now of Al, inside the office, seated facing two NP men. Another man was with Al; in fact two other men. One, Ian decided was Richard Kongrosian. The other -- he recognized him; it was a fellow-inhabitant of The Abraham Lincoln Apartments, Mr Chic Strikerock from the top floor. Ian had run into him a number of times at meetings and in the cafeteria.
His brother Vince was currently their identification reader.
'The term I knew,' he murmured, 'was allost.'
'What's "allost" mean?" the man beside him asked.
'All's lost,' Ian said.
The term applied right now. Obviously, Al was under arrest; so in fact were Strikerock and Kongrosian, but Ian did not care about them -- he was thinking about Duncan & Miller, Classical Jugs; about the future which had opened up when Al had decided to play once more; the future which now had closed so decisively in their faces. I should have expected this, Ian said to himself. That just before we got to the White House the NP would step in and arrest Al, put an end to it all. It's the luck that's tracked me all my life. No reason why it should relent now.
If they've got Al, he decided, they might as well have me, too. Pushing through the knot of onlookers, Ian stepped up on to the lot and approached the nearest NP man.
'Move on,' the grey-clad NP man said to him, motioning.
'Take me,' Ian said. 'I'm in on it.'
The NP man glared at him. 'I said get going.'