—St. Augustine
That evening, drably, he and Lotta watched the news on TV.
“All day,” the announcer exclaimed, “a crowd of Uditi, the followers of His Mightiness Ray Roberts, has been growing in the vicinity of the People’s Topical Library; a restless crowd, surging back and forth in a manner suggesting anger. Los Angeles police, who have kept an eye on the crowd without attempting to interfere with it, expressed fear shortly before five P.M. that an attack on the Library would be soon forthcoming. We talked to a number of persons in the crowd, asking them why they had assembled here and what they proposed to do.”
The TV screen showed disjointed scenes of people in motion. Noisy people, mostly men, waving their arms, yelling.
“We talked to Mr. Leopold Haskins and asked him why he had come to parade in front of the Library, and he had this to say.”
A burly Negro man, probably in his late thirties, appeared on the TV screen, looking sullen. “Well, I’m here,” he said gruffly, “because they got the Anarch in there.”
Holding out the portable microphone the TV news announcer said, “They have the Anarch Thomas Peak in the Library, sir?”
“Yeah, they got him in there,” Leopold Haskins said. “We heard about ten this morning that not only do they got the Anarch in there but they plan to dispatch him.”
“To murder him, sir?” the TV announcer inquired.
“That right; that what we hear.”
“And what do you propose to do about it, assuming this to be true?”
“Well, we plan on goin’ in there. That what we plan.” Leopold Haskins glanced about self-consciously. “They told us that we going to get him out if at all possible, so that why I’m here; I’m here to keep the Library from doin’ that terrible thing they plan on doin’.”
“Will the police try to stop you, do you think?”
“Uh, no,” Leopold Haskins said, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “The L.A. police, they hate the Library bad as we do.”
“And why is that, sir?”
“The L.A. police know,” Haskins said, “that it was the Library that kilt that policeman yesterday, that Officer Tinbane.”
“We were told—”
“I know what you were told,” Haskins said excitedly, his voice rising to a falsetto, “but it wasn’t any ‘religious fanatics’ like they said. They know who did it and we know who did it.”
The camera switched, then, to focus on an ill-at-ease very thin Negro wearing a white shirt and dark trousers. “Sir,” the TV announcer said, mike in hand, “can we have your name, please?”
“Jonah L. Sawyer,” the thin Negro said in a rasping voice.
“And why are you here today, sir?”
“The reason I’m here,” Sawyer said, “is because that Library won’t listen to no reason and won’t let the Anarch out.”
“And you’re assembled here to get him out.”
“That right, sir; we here to get him out.” Sawyer nodded earnestly.
The TV announcer asked, “And how, specifically, do you propose to do that, sir? Do the Uditi have definite plans?”
“Well, we got our elite organization, the Offspring of Might, and they in charge; they the ones that ask us to come here today. I of course do not know specifically what they plan to do, but—”
“But you think they can do it.”
“Yes, I think they can do it.” Sawyer nodded.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Sawyer,” the TV announcer holding the mike said. He then metamorphosed into his later self, seated—live—at his desk, with a stack of news bulletins before him. “Shortly before six this evening,” he continued, “the crowd around the People’s Topical Library, by then several thousand in number, became extremely tense, as if sensing that something was about to happen. And happen it did. From out of nowhere, or so it seemed, a cannon appeared and began poorly aimed, sporadic firing, lobbing shell after shell on the large gray stone building comprising the People’s Topical Library. At this, the crowd went wild.” The TV screen now showed the crowd going wild, milling and shouting, faces ecstatic. “Earlier in the day I talked with Los Angeles Police Chief Michael Harrington and asked whether or not the Library had requested police assistance. Here is what Chief Harrington had to say.”
The screen now showed a thick-necked white, with pocked skin and codfish eyes, wearing a uniform and glancing about slyly as he wet his lips to speak. “The People’s Topical Library,” he intoned in a loud, assertive voice, as if making a formal speech, “have made no such request. We have made various attempts to contact them, but our understanding is that at approximately four-thirty this afternoon all Library personnel vacated the building, and that it is now empty, pending the disposition of the matter of this disorderly, illegal crowd and their intentions toward the Library.” He paused, chewed his cud. “I have also been told—but this has not been confirmed, to my knowledge—that a militant faction of the Udi people has plans to use an atomic warhead cannon against the Library building in an effort to smash it open so that the crowd can then rush in and rescue their former leader, the Anarch Thomas Peak, whom they assume to be there.”
“Is the Anarch Peak in there, Chief Harrington?” the TV announcer asked.
“To our knowledge,” the L.A. police chief answered, “the Anarch Peak may well be in there. We do not know for sure.” His voice faded off, as if he had his mind somewhere else; continually he glanced at something or someone out of the corner of his eye. “No, we have no knowledge of that one way or another.”
“If the Anarch were in there,” the announcer said, “as the Uditi appear to believe, would they, in your opinion, be justified in attempting forced entry? As they seem bent on? Or do you regard—”
“We regard this crowd,” Chief Harrington said, “as constituting an unlawful assembly, and we have already made several arrests. At the present time we are attempting to persuade them to disband.”
Again the announcer rematerialized at his desk, handsomely attired and unruffled. “The crowd,” he stated, “did not disband as Chief Harrington hoped. And now, from later reports directly at the scene, we understand as we said before that the atomic cannon referred to by Chief Harrington has in fact appeared, and we further understand is at this moment doing considerable damage to the Library building. We will interrupt our regular programs during the evening to keep you informed of the progress of this virtually pitched battle between the proponents of the cult of Udi, as represented by the noisy, milling, and quite angry, crowd, and the—”
Sebastian shut the TV set off.
“It’s a good thing,” Lotta said thoughtfully. “The Library disappearing. I’m glad it’s gone.”
“It’s not gone. They’ll rebuild. The whole staff and all the Erads got out; you heard what the TV said. Don’t get your hopes up.” He rose from the couch where he had been sitting and began to pace.
“We’re probably safe for a little while,” Lotta pointed out. “The Offspring are tied up trying to get into the Library; they’re probably so busy they’ve forgotten about us.”
“But they’ll remember us again,” he said. “When they’re through with the Library.” He thought, I wonder if by some miracle they could possibly reach the Anarch before he’s killed. My god, he thought; I wonder . . . it’s theoretically possible, at least.
But he knew, in his heart, that it would not work out that way. The Anarch would never be seen again alive; he knew it, the Anarch had known it, and the Uditi knew it. Ray Roberts and the Uditi knew it most of all.
“Turn the news back on,” Lotta requested, restlessly.
He did so.
And saw, on the screen, the face of Mavis McGuire.
“Mrs. McGuire,” the TV announcer was saying, “this attack on your Library—have you made any statement to the crowd to the effect that you are not holding their former spiritual leader? Or do you think such a frank announcement would have the desired effect of quieting them?”
Mrs. McGuire
said in her severe, frigid voice, “Early today, we called in representatives of the news media and read them a prepared statement. I will read it to you again, if you wish; will somebody—thanks.” She received a sheet of paper, glanced over it, and then began to read in her crisp, no-nonsense Library voice. “‘Because of the presence of Mr. Ray Roberts in Los Angeles at this time, religious bigotry has been fanned by a considerable—and deliberate—flame of intended violence. That the People’s Topical Library is a prime target earmarked for this violence does not surprise us, inasmuch as the Library stands for the maintenance of the physical and spiritual institutions of present-day society—institutions the overthrow of which the so-called Uditi have a vested interest in. As regards the use of police to protect us, we welcome any assistance which Chief Harrington may render, but incidents of this kind date back to the Watts riot in the 1960s and their constant recurrence—”
“Oh god,” Lotta said, clapping her hands to her ears, and gazing at him with stricken fear. “That voice; that awful voice, babbling away at me—” She shuddered.
“We also talked to Miss Ann Fisher,” the TV news announcer said, “the daughter of Chief Librarian Mavis McGuire. And she had this to say.” The screen now showed Ann, in the living room of her conapt, seated across from the TV camera and announcer; she looked poised and pretty and calm, undisturbed by what was taking place.
“—that it appears to have been planned long ago,” Ann said. “I think the idea of razing the Library dates back months, and that this explains the visit of Ray Roberts to the West Coast.”
“You think, then,” the announcer said, “that the attack on your Library—”
“—is and has been the cardinal target-goal of Udi for this year,” Ann continued. “We’re on their timetable; it’s as simple as that.”
“So the attack was not spontaneous.”
“Oh no. Certainly not; it has all the earmarks of being meticulously planned, and long in advance. The presence of their cannon demonstrates that.”
“Has the Library tried to communicate directly with His Mightiness Ray Roberts? To assure him that you are not in fact holding the Anarch?”
Ann said placidly, “Ray Roberts has managed to make himself totally unavailable at this time.”
“So efforts on your part—”
“We’ve had no luck. Nor will we have any.”
“You feel, then, that the Uditi will be successful in destroying the Library?”
Ann shrugged. “The police are making no attempt to stop them. As usual. And we aren’t armed.”
“Why, Miss Fisher, do you think the police are not attempting to halt the Uditi?”
“The police are afraid. They’ve been afraid since 1965 when the Watts riots broke out. Howling mobs have controlled Los Angeles—in fact most of the W.U.S.—for decades. I’m surprised this didn’t happen to us sooner.”
“But you will rebuild? Afterward?”
Ann Fisher said, “We will construct, on the site of the old Library building, a much larger, much more modern structure. Blueprints have already been drawn up; we have an extremely fine firm of architects at work right now. Work will begin next week.”
“‘Next week’?” the announcer queried. “It sounds as if the Library anticipated this mob violence.”
“As I said, I’m surprised it didn’t happen long ago.”
“Miss Fisher, are you personally afraid of the Udi zealots, the so-called Offspring of Might?”
“Not at all. Well, perhaps a little.” She smiled, showing her fine, even teeth.
“Thank you, Miss Fisher.” Once more the announcer appeared at his desk, facing his TV audience with an appropriate worried expression on his face. “Mob violence in Los Angeles: an evil which has haunted the city since, as Miss Fisher said, the Watts riots of 1965. A venerable building, a landmark, at this moment being blown to pieces . . . and still the mystery of the whereabouts of the Anarch Peak—assuming that it is true that he has returned to life—remains unsolved.” The announcer pawed among his news dispatches, then once more raised his eyes to confront his viewers. “Is the Anarch in the People’s Topical Library?” he inquired rhetorically. “And if he is—”
“I don’t want to hear any more,” Lotta said; getting up, she reached to shut off the TV set.
“They ought to interview you,” Sebastian said. “You could tell the TV viewers something about the Library’s venerable method of operation.”
Frightened, Lotta said, “I couldn’t get in front of a TV camera; I wouldn’t be able to say a word.”
“I was joking,” he said, humanely.
“Why don’t you call the ’papes and the TV stations?” Lotta asked. “You saw the Anarch in there; you could vindicate the Uditi.”
For a time he toyed with the idea. “Maybe I will,” he said. “In the next day or so. This will be in the news for some time.” I’ll do it, he thought, if I’m still alive. “I could tell them something about the Offspring of Might while I’m at it,” he said. “I’m afraid that what I have to say would cancel itself out.” Would indict both parties, he realized. So I probably had better stay entirely out of it.
Lotta said earnestly, “Let’s leave here; let’s not stay in the conapt any longer. I—can’t stand it, just sitting and waiting like this.”
“You want to go to a motel?” he said brusquely. “That didn’t do Joe Tinbane much good.”
“Maybe the Offspring of Might aren’t as smart as the Library agents.”
“They’re about equal,” he said.
“Do you love me?” Lotta asked timidly. “Still?”
“Yes,” he said.
“I thought love conquered everything,” Lotta said. “I guess that isn’t true.” She roamed about the room, then started off for the kitchen.
And screamed.
In an instant he had reached her; he gripped the shovel from the fireplace—it happened to be near at hand—and pushed her blindly behind him, the shovel raised.
Small and withered and old, the Anarch Peak stood at the far end of the kitchen, holding together his dingy cotton robe. Grief seemed to hang about him; it had shrunk him, but not defeated him: he managed to lift his right hand in greeting.
They’ve killed him, Sebastian thought with a thrill of sick sorrow. I can tell; that’s why he isn’t speaking.
“You see him?” Lotta whispered.
“Yes.” Sebastian nodded, lowered the shovel. Then it hadn’t been the LSD; his vision, on the roof of Ann Fisher’s building, had been genuine. “Can you talk to us?” he asked the Anarch. “I wish you could.”
Presently, in a voice like the dry rasping of an abandoned winter leaf, the Anarch said, “An Offspring of Might has left Ray Roberts, with whom he has been conferring, and now is on his way here. This man they consider their ranking assassin.”
There was silence, and then, by degrees, Lotta—as always— began to cry.
“What can we do, Your Mightiness?” Sebastian asked, helplessly.
“The three Offspring who came here earlier in the day,” the Anarch said, “placed a device on you, Mr. Hermes, which informs them continually of your location. No matter where you go, the device will register with them.”
Sebastian groped at his coat, his sleeves, seeking the device.
“It consists of an electronically active non-eradicable dye,” the Anarch said. “You can’t remove it, because it is on your skin.”
“We wanted to go to Mars,” Lotta managed to say.
“You still will,” the Anarch said. “I intend to be here when the Offspring of Might arrives. If I can be.” To Sebastian the Anarch said, “I am very weak, now. It is difficult . . . I don’t know.” His face showed pain, acute and terrible.
“They’ve killed you,” Sebastian said to him.
“They injected me with a toxic agent, organic, to blend with my general deteriorated condition. But it will take several minutes . . . it is slow-acting.”
The bastards, Sebastian thought
.
“I am lying on a bed,” the Anarch said. “In a dark narrow room. At a branch of the Library; I don’t know which one. No one is with me any longer. They injected the toxin and now they have left.”
“They didn’t want to see,” Sebastian said.
The Anarch said, “I feel so very tired. I have never felt so tired, in all my life. When I awoke in my coffin I could not move my body, and that frightened me, but this is worse. But it will end in a few more minutes.”
“In view of your own condition,” Sebastian said, “it’s good of you to care what happens to us.”
“You revived me,” the Anarch said faintly. “I will never forget that. And we talked together, I and you, I and your staff. I remember that; it pleased me very much. Even your salesman; I remember him, too.”
Sebastian said, “Can’t we do anything for you?”
“Keep talking to me,” the Anarch said. “I don’t want to fall asleep. ‘It is the lives, the lives, the lives, that die.’” For a moment he said nothing; he appeared to be thinking. And then he said, “ ‘Tissue by tissue to a soul he grows, as leaf by leaf the rose becomes the rose. Tissue from tissue rots; and, as the sun goes from the bubbles when they burst, he goes.’”
“Do you still believe that?” Sebastian asked.
There was no answer. The Anarch, paltry in substance, trembled and drew his cotton robe tighter around him.
“He’s dead,” Lotta said quaveringly, shocked.
Not yet, Sebastian thought. Another two minutes. One more.
The remnants of the Anarch drifted away. And disappeared.
“Yes, they killed him,” Sebastian said. He’s gone, he thought. And this time he won’t be back; this finishes it. The last time.
Gazing at him, Lotta whispered, “Now he can’t help us.”
“Maybe it doesn’t matter,” Sebastian said. The lives die, he thought. They have to, ours included. His. Even the assassin on his way here; eventually he will dwindle away and be gone, too—slowly, over years, or in an instant: all at once.
A knock sounded on the hall door.
Going to the door, shovel in hand, Sebastian opened it.
The black-silk figure with cold eyes standing there tossed something small into the living room. Sebastian, dropping the shovel, grabbed the Offspring by the neck and dragged him from the hall, into the room.