Through a window of the White House she saw crowds outside the gates. The curious, here because of Rudi's 'illness.' Nicole smiled momentarily. The watchers at the gate ... keeping the vigil. They would be there from now on, day and night, as if waiting for World Series seat tickets, until Kalbfleisch 'died.' And then they would silently drift off. Heaven knew what they came for. Didn't they have anything else to do? She had wondered about them many times before, at the previous occasions. Were they always the same people? Interesting speculation.
She turned a corner -- and found herself facing Bertold Goltz.
'I hurried here as soon as I heard,' Goltz said, lazily. 'So the old man's strutted his little period and now is to be hustled off. He didn't last very long, this one. And Herr Hogben will replace him, a certain mythical, non-existent construct with that apt appellation. I was over at the Frauenzimmer Werke; they're going great guns, there.'
'What do you want here?' Nicole demanded.
Goltz shrugged. 'Conversation, perhaps. I eternally enjoy chatting with you. Actually, however, I have a distinct purpose: to warn you. Karp und Sohnen has an agent in the Frauenzimmer Werke already.'
'I'm aware of that,' Nicole said. 'And don't refer to the Frauenzimmer firm as a "Werke." They're too small to be a cartel.'
'A cartel can be small in size. What matters is that they hold a monopoly; there's no competition -- Frauenzimmer has it all. Now Nicole, you had better listen to me; better have your von Lessinger technicians preview events vis-à-vis the Frauenzimmer people. For the next two months or so at the very least. I think you'll be surprised. Karp is not going to give up that easily; you should have thought of that.'
'We keep the situation in -- '
'No you don't,' Goltz said. 'You have nothing under control. Look ahead and you'll see. You're becoming complacent, like a big fat cat.' He saw her touch the emergency button at her throat and he smiled broadly. 'The alarm, Nicky? Because of me? Well, I guess I'll stroll on. By the way: congratulations on stopping Kongrosian before he could emigrate. That was a genuine coup on your part. However -- you don't know it yet, but your snaring of Kongrosian has dragged a little more than you anticipated into existence. Please make use of your von Lessinger equipment; it's so uniquely valuable in situations like this.'
Two grey-clad NP men appeared at the end of the corridor. Nicole signalled brusquely to them and they scrambled to get out their guns.
Yawning, Goltz vanished.
'He's gone,' Nicole said to the NP men, accusingly. Of course Goltz was gone; she had expected it. But at least this had terminated the conversation; she was rid of his presence.
We ought to go back, Nicole thought, to Goltz's babyhood and destroy him then. But Goltz had anticipated them. He was long since back there, at the time of his birth and onward into childhood. Guarding himself, training himself, crooning over his child-self; through the von Lessinger principle Bertold Goltz had become, in effect, his own parent He was his own constant companion, his own Aristotle, for the initial fifteen years of his life, and for that reason the younger Goltz could not be surprised.
Surprise. That was the element which von Lessinger had nearly banished from politics. Everything now was pure cause and effect. At least, so she hoped.
'Mrs Thibodeaux,' one of the NP men said, very respectfully, 'there is a man from A.G. Chemie to see you. A Mr Merrill Judd. We brought him up.'
'Oh yes,' Nicole said, nodding. She had an appointment with him; Judd had some fresh ideas as to how to go about curing Richard Kongrosian. The psych-chemist had approached the White House as soon as he had learned that Kongrosian had been found. 'Thank you,' she said, and started towards the California Poppy Room where she was to meet with Judd.
Damn those Karps, Anton and Felix, she thought as she hurried along the carpeted corridor, the two NP men following behind her. Suppose they attempt to sabotage the Dieter Hogben Project -- perhaps Goltz is right: perhaps we've got to act against them!
But they were so strong. And so resourceful. The Karps, father and son, were old pros at this business, even more so than she herself.
I wonder what Goltz meant exactly, she thought. About our having dragged more than we anticipated into existence when we regained possession of Richard Kongrosian. Something to do with Loony Luke? There was another one, as bad as the Karps or Goltz; another pirate and nihilist, out for himself at the expense of the state. How complicated everything had become, and still there was the unfinished, nagging business deal with Goering hanging over everything else. The Reichsmarschall simply could not decide and would not, would never finalize, and his indecision was stopping the wheels, keeping her attention fixed there, and at far too great a cost. If Goering did not decide by tonight. He would be, as she had assured him, back in his own time by eight this evening. Involved in a losing war which would eventually -- and he would be acutely aware of it cost him his fat life.
I'll see that Goering gets exactly what's due him, she said savagely to herself. And Goltz and the Karps, too. All of them, including Loony Luke. But it must be done carefully, with each matter handled in sequence. Right now she had a more pressing problem, that of Kongrosian.
Swiftly, she entered the California Poppy Room and greeted the A.G. Chemie psych-chemist, Merrill Judd.
In his sleep Ian Duncan had a terrible dream. A hideous old woman with greenish, wrinkled claws scrabbled at him, whining for him to do something -- he did not understand what it was because her voice, her words, blurred into indistinction, swallowed by her broken-toothed mouth, lost in the twisting thread of saliva which found its way to her chin. He struggled to free himself, to wake from his nap, to escape from her ...
'Chrissake,' Al's peevish voice filtered through the layers of semi-consciousness to him. 'Wake up! We have to get the lot moving; we're supposed to be at the White House in less than three hours.'
Nicole, Ian realized as he sat up groggily. It was her I was dreaming about; ancient and withered, with dry, shrunken, deathly-stale paps, but still her. 'Okay,' he muttered as he rose unsteadily to his feet. 'I sure as hell didn't mean to doze off. And I sure paid for it; I had a terrible dream about Nicole Al. Listen suppose she really is old, despite what we saw? Suppose it's a trick, a projected illusion. I mean -- '
'We'll perform,' Al said. 'Play our jugs.'
'But I couldn't live through it,' Ian Duncan said. 'My ability to adjust is just too precarious. This is turning into a nightmare; Luke controls the papoola and maybe Nicola is old -- what's the point of going on? Can't we go back to just seeing her on the TV screen? That's good enough for me. I want that, the image. Okay?'
'No,' Al said doggedly. 'We have to see this through. Remember, you can always emigrate to Mars; we have the means right at hand.'
The lot had already risen, was already moving towards the East Coast and Washington, D.C.
When they landed, Harold Slezak, a rotund, genial little man, greeted them warmly; he shook hands with them, putting them at their ease as they walked towards the service entrance of the White House. 'Your programme is ambitious,' he burbled, 'but you can fulfil it, fine with me, with us here, the First Family I mean, and in particular the First Lady herself who is actively enthusiastic about all forms of original artistry. According to your biographical data you two made a thorough study of primitive disc recordings from the early nineteen hundreds, as early as 1920, of jug bands surviving from the US Civil War, so you're authentic juggists except of course, you're classical, not folk.'
'Yes sir,' Al said.
'Could you, however, slip in one folk work?' Slezak asked as they passed the NP guards at the service entrance and entered the White House, the long, quiet corridor with its artificial candles set at intervals. 'For instance, we suggest "Rockaby My Sara Jane." Do you have that in your repertoire? If not?'
'We have it,' Al said shortly. A look of repugnance appeared on his face and then immediately was gone.
'Fine,' Slezak said, prodding the two of them amiably ahead of him.
Now may I ask what this creature you carry is?' He eyed the papoola with something less than active enthusiasm. 'Is it alive?'
'It's our totem animal,' Al said.
'You mean a superstitious charm? A mascot?'
'Exactly,' Al said. 'With it we assuage anxiety.' He patted the papoola's head. 'And it's part of our act; it dances while we play. You know, like a monkey.'
'Well, I'll be darned,' Slezak said, his enthusiasm returning. 'I see, now. Nicole will be delighted; she loves soft furry things.' He held a door open ahead of them.
And there she sat.
How could Luke have been so wrong? Ian Duncan thought. She was even lovelier than their glimpse of her at the lot, and in comparison with her TV image she was much more distinct. That was the cardinal difference, the fabulous authenticity of her appearance, its reality to the senses. The senses knew difference. Here she sat, in faded blue-cotton trousers, moccasins on her small feet, a carelessly-buttoned white shirt through which he could see -- or imagined he could see -- her tanned, smooth skin. How informal she was. Ian thought. Lacking in pretense or vain-glory. Her hair cut short, exposing her beautifully-formed neck and ears -- which fascinated him, captured his whole attention.
And, he thought, so darn young. She did not look even twenty. He wondered if by some miracle she remembered him. Or Al.
'Nicole,' Slezak said, 'these are the classical juggists.'
She glanced up, sideways; she had been reading The Times.
Now she smiled in greeting. 'Good afternoon,' she said. 'Did you two have lunch? We could serve you some Canadian bacon and butterhorns and coffee as a snack, if you want.' Her voice, oddly, did not seem to come from her; it materialized from the upper portion of the room, almost at the ceiling. Looking that way, Ian saw a series of speakers and he realized with a start that a glass or plastic barrier separated Nicole from them, a security measure to protect her. He felt disappointed and yet he understood why it was necessary. If anything happened to her'We ate, Mrs Thibodeaux,' Al said. 'Thanks.' He, too, was glancing up at the speakers.
We ate Mrs Thibodeaux, Ian Duncan thought crazily.
Isn't it actually the other way around? Doesn't she, sitting here in her blue-cotton pants and shirt, doesn't she devour us? Strange thought ...
'Look,' Nicole said to Harold Slezak. 'They have one of those little papoolas with them -- won't that be fun?' To Al she said, 'Could I see it? Let it come here.' She made a signal, and the transparent wall began to lift.
Al dropped the papoola and it scuttled towards Nicole, beneath the raised security barrier; it hopped up, and all at once Nicole held it in her strong, competent hands, gazing down at it intently as if peering deep inside it.
'Heck,' she said, 'it's not alive; it's just a toy.'
'None survived,' Al explained. 'As far as we know. But this is an authentic model, based on fossil remains found on Mars.' He stepped towards her. The barrier settled abruptly in place. Al was cut off from the papoola and he stood gaping foolishly, seemingly very upset. Then, as if by instinct, he touched the controls at his waist. The papoola slid from Nicole's hands and hopped clumsily to the floor. Nicole exclaimed in amazement, her eyes bright.
'Do you want one, Nicky?' Harold Slezak asked her. 'We can undoubtedly get you one, even several.'
'What does it do?' Nicole said.
Slezak bubbled, 'It dances, ma'am, when they play it has rhythm in its bones -- correct, Mr Duncan? Maybe you could play something now, a shorter piece, to show Mrs Thibodeaux.' He rubbed his ample hands together vigorously, nodding to Ian and Al.
'S-sure,' Al said. He and Ian looked at each other. 'Uh, we could play that little Schubert thing, that arrangement of "The Trout." Okay, Ian, get set.' He unbuttoned the protective case from his jug, lifted it out and held it awkwardly. Ian did the same. "This is Al Miller, here at first jug,' Al said.
'And beside me is my partner, Ian Duncan, at second jug. Bringing you a concert of classical favourites, beginning with a little Schubert.'
Bump bump-bump BUMP-BUMP buump bump, babump-bump bup-bup-bup-bup-buppppp ...
Nicole said suddenly, 'Now I remember where I saw you two before. Especially you, Mr Miller.'
Lowering their jugs they waited apprehensively.
'At that jalopy jungle,' Nicole said. 'When I went to pick up Richard. You talked to me; you asked me to leave Richard alone.'
'Yes,' Al admitted.
'Didn't you suppose I'd remember you?' Nicole asked. 'For heaven's sake?'
Al said, 'You see so many people -- '
'But I have a good memory,' Nicole said. 'Even for those who aren't too dreadfully important. You should have waited a little longer before coming here ... or perhaps you don't care.'
'We care,' Al said. 'We care a lot.'
She studied him for a long time. 'Musicians are funny people,' she said aloud, at last. 'They don't think like other people, I've discovered. They live in their own private fantasy world, like Richard does. He's the worst. But he's also the best, the finest of the White House musicians. Perhaps it has to go together; I don't know, I don't have any theory about it. Someone should do a definitive scientific study on the subject and settle it once and for all. Well, go ahead with your number.'
'Okay,' Al said, glancing quickly at Ian.
'You never told me you said that to her,' Ian said. 'Asking her to leave Kongrosian alone -- you never mentioned that.'
'I thought you knew; I thought you were there and heard it.' Al shrugged. 'Anyhow, I didn't really believe she'd remember me.' Obviously it still seemed impossible to him; his face was a maze of disbelief.
They began to play once again.
Bump-bump-bump BUMP-BUMP buuump bump ...
Nicole giggled.
We've failed, Ian thought. God, the worst had come about; we're ludicrous. He ceased playing; Al continued on, his cheeks red and swelling with the effort of playing. He seemed unaware that Nicole was holding her hand up to conceal her laughter, her amusement at them and their efforts. Al played on, by himself, to the end of the piece, and then he, too, lowered his jug.
'The papoola,' Nicole said, as evenly as possible. 'It didn't dance. Not one little step -- why not?' And again she laughed, unable to stop herself.
Al said woodenly, 'I -- don't have control of it; it's on remote right now.' To Ian he said, 'Luke's got control of it, still.' He turned to the papoola and said in a loud voice, 'You better dance.'
'Oh really, this is wonderful,' Nicole said. 'Look,' she said, to a woman who had just joined her; it was Janet Raimer -- Ian recognized her. 'He has to beg it to dance. Dance, whatever your name is, papoola-thing from Mars, or rather imitation papoola-thing from Mars.' she prodded the papoola with the toe of her moccasin, trying to nudge it into life. 'Come on, little synthetic ancient cute creature, all made out of wires. Please.' She prodded it a little harder.
The papoola leaped at her. It bit her.
Nicole screamed. A sharp pop sounded from behind her, and the papoola vanished into particles that swirled. A White House NP man stepped into sight, his rifle in his hands, peering at her and at the floating particles; his face was calm but his hands and the rifle quivered. Al began to curse to himself, chanting the words sing-song over and over again, the same three or four, unceasingly.
'Luke,' he said, then, to Ian. 'He did it. Revenge. It's the end of us.' He looked tunelessly old, haggard, worn out.
Reflectively he began wrapping his jug up once more, going through the motions in mechanical fashion, step by step.
'You're under arrest,' a second White House NP guard said, appearing behind them and training his rule on the two of them.
'Sure,' Al said listlessly, his head nodding, wobbling vacuously. 'We had nothing to do with it so arrest us.'
Getting to her feet with the assistance of Janet Raimer, Nicole walked slowly towards Al and Ian. At the transparent barrier she stopped. 'Did it bite me because I laughed?' she said in a quiet voice.
Slezak stood mopping his
forehead. He said nothing; he merely stared at them all sightlessly.
'I'm sorry,' Nicole said. 'I made it angry, didn't I? It's a shame; we would have enjoyed your act. This evening after dinner.'
'Luke did it,' Al said to her.
' "Luke." ' Nicole studied him. 'Yes, that's right; he's your employer.' To Janet Raimer she said, 'I guess we'd better have him arrested, too. Don't you think?'
'Anything you say,' Janet Raimer said, pale and terribly frightened-looking.
Nicole said, 'This whole jug business ... it was just a cover-up for an action directly hostile to us, wasn't it? A crime against the state. We'll have to rethink the entire philosophy of inviting performers here -- perhaps it's been a mistake from the very start. It gives too much access to anyone who has hostile intentions towards us. I'm sorry.'
She looked sad, now; she folded her arms and stood rocking back and forth, lost in thought.
'Believe me, Nicole -- ' Al began.
Introspectively, to herself, she said, 'I'm not Nicole. Don't call me that. Nicole Thibodeaux died years ago. I'm Kate Rupert, the fourth one to take her place. I'm just an actress who looks enough like the original Nicole to be able to keep this job, and sometimes, when something like this happens I wish that I didn't have it. I have no real authority, in the ultimate sense. There's a council that governs ... I never see them; they're not interested in me and I'm not in them. So that makes it even.'
After a time Al said, 'How -- many attempts have there been on your life?'
'Six or seven,' she said. 'I forget exactly. All for psychological reasons. Unresolved Oedipal complexes or something bizarre like that. I don't really care.' She turned to the NP men, then; there were now several squads of them on hand. Pointing to Al and Ian she said, 'It seems to me they don't appear as if they know what's going on. Maybe they are innocent.' To Harold Slezak and Janet Raimer she said, 'Do they have to be destroyed? I don't see why you couldn't just eradicate a portion of the memory-cells of their brains and then let them go. Why wouldn't that do?'