The first man stared at where they had been and reached for his gun—and he was gone, too.
The other four started to close in. Smith did not want to twist them. He felt that Jubal would be pleased if he simply stopped them. But stopping a thing, even an ash tray, is work—and Smith did not have his body. An Old One could have managed it, but Smith did what he could, what he had to do.
Four feather touches—they were gone.
He felt intense wrongness from the car on the ground and went to it—grokked a quick decision, car and pilot were gone.
He almost overlooked the car riding cover patrol. Smith started to relax—when suddenly he felt wrongness increase, and looked up.
The second car was coming in for landing.
Smith stretched time to his limit and went to the car in the air, inspected it carefully, grokked that it was choked with wrongness . . . tilted it into neverness. Then he returned to the group by the pool.
His friends seemed excited; Dorcas was sobbing and Jill was holding and soothing her. Anne alone seemed untouched by emotions Smith felt seething around him. But wrongness was gone, all of it, and with it the trouble that had disturbed his meditations. Dorcas, he knew, would be healed faster by Jill than by anyone—Jill always grokked a hurting fully and at once. Disturbed by emotions around him, uneasy that he might not have acted in all ways rightly at cusp—or that Jubal might so grok—Smith decided that he was now free to leave. He slipped back into the pool, found his body, grokked that it was as he had left it—slipped it back on.
He considered contemplating events at cusp. But they were too new; he was not ready to enfold them, not ready to praise and cherish the men he had been forced to move. Instead he returned happily to the task he had been on. “Sherbet” . . . “Sherbetlee” . . . “Sherbetzide”—
He had reached “Tinwork” and was about to consider “Tiny” when he felt Jill approaching. He unswallowed his tongue and made himself ready, knowing that his brother Jill could not remain long under water without distress.
As she touched him, he took her face in his hands and kissed her. It was a thing he had learned quite lately and did not grok perfectly. It had the growing-closer of water ceremony. But it had something else, too . . . something he wanted to grok in perfect fullness.
XVI.
HARSHAW DID not wait for Gillian to dig her problem child out of the pool; he left orders for Dorcas to be given a sedative and hurried to his study, leaving Anne to explain (or not) the events of the last ten minutes. “Front!” he called over his shoulder.
Miriam caught up with him. “I must be ‘front,’ ” she said breathlessly. “But, Boss, what in the—”
“Girl, not one word.”
“But, Boss—”
“Zip it, I said. Miriam, a week from now we’ll sit down and get Anne to tell us what happened. But right now everybody and his cousins will be phoning and reporters will crawl out of trees—and I’ve got to make some calls first. Are you the sort of female who comes unstuck when she’s needed? That reminds me—Make a note to dock Dorcas’s pay for the time she spent having hysterics.”
Miriam gasped. “Boss! You just dare and every single one of us will quit!”
“Nonsense.”
“Quit picking on Dorcas. Why, I would have had hysterics myself if she hadn’t beaten me to it.” She added, “I think I’ll have hysterics now.”
Harshaw grinned. “You do and I’ll spank you. All right, put Dorcas down for a bonus for ‘hazardous duty.’ Put all of you down for a bonus. Me, especially. I earned it.”
“All right. Who pays your bonus?”
“The taxpayers. We’ll find a way to clip—Damn!” They had reached his study; the telephone was already demanding attention. He slid into the seat and keyed in. “Harshaw speaking. Who the devil are you?”
“Skip it, Doc,” a face answered. “You haven’t frightened me in years. How’s everything?”
Harshaw recognized Thomas Mackenzie, production manager-in-chief for New World Networks; he mellowed slightly. “Well enough, Tom. But I’m rushed as can be, so—”
“You’re rushed? Try my forty-eight hour day. Do you still think you are going to have something for us? I don’t mind the equipment; I can overhead that. But I have to pay three crews just to stand by for your signal. I want to do you any favor I can. We’ve used lots of your script and we expect to use more in the future—but I wonder what to tell our comptroller.”
Harshaw stared. “Don’t you think that spot coverage was enough?”
“What spot coverage?”
Shortly Harshaw knew that New World Networks had seen nothing of recent events at his home. He stalled Mackenzie’s questions, because he was certain that truthful answers would convince Mackenzie that poor old Harshaw had gone to pieces.
Instead they agreed that, if nothing worth picking up happened in twenty-four hours, New World could remove cameras and equipment.
As the screen cleared Harshaw ordered, “Get Larry. Have him fetch that panic button—Anne has it.” He made two more calls. By the time Larry arrived Harshaw knew that no network had been watching when the Special Service squads attempted to raid his home. It was not necessary to check on the “hold” messages; their delivery depended on the same signal that had failed to reach the networks.
Larry offered him the “panic button” portable radio link. “You wanted this, Boss?”
“I wanted to sneer at it. Larry, let this be a lesson: never trust machinery more complicated than a knife and fork.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
“Is there a way to check that dingus? Without hauling three networks out of bed?”
“Sure. The transceiver they set up down in the shop has a switch for that. Throw the switch, push the panic button; a light comes on. To test on through, you call ’em, right from the transceiver and tell ’em you want a hot test to the cameras and back to the stations.”
“Suppose the test shows that we aren’t getting through? Can you spot what’s wrong?”
“Maybe,” Larry said doubtfully, “if it was just a loose connection. But Duke is the electron pusher—I’m more the intellectual type.”
“I know, son—I’m not bright about practical matters, either. Well, do the best you can.”
“Anything else, Jubal?”
“If you see the man who invented the wheel, send him up. Meddler!”
Jubal considered the possibility that Duke had sabotaged the “panic button” but rejected the thought. He allowed himself to wonder what had really happened in his garden and how the lad had done it—from ten feet under water. He had no doubt that Mike had been behind those impossible shenanigans.
What he had seen the day before in this very room was just as intellectually stupefying—but the emotional impact was not. A mouse was as much a miracle of biology as was an elephant; nevertheless there was a difference—an elephant was bigger.
To see an empty carton, just rubbish, disappear in mid-air implied that a squad car full of men could vanish. But one event kicked your teeth in—the other didn’t.
Well, he wouldn’t waste tears on Cossacks. Jubal conceded that cops qua cops were all right; he had met honest cops . . . and even a fee-splitting constable did not deserve to be snuffed out. The Coast Guard was an example of what cops ought to be and frequently were.
But to be in the S.S. a man had to have larceny in his heart and sadism in his soul. Gestapo. Storm troopers for whatever politico was in power. Jubal longed for the days when a lawyer could cite the Bill of Rights and not have some over-riding Federation trickery defeat him.
Never mind—What would happen now? Heinrich’s force certainly had had radio contact with its base; ergo, its loss would be noted. More S.S. troopers would come looking—already headed this way if that second car had been chopped off in the middle of an action report. “Miriam—”
“Yes, Boss.”
“I want Mike, Jill, and Anne at once. Then find Larry—in the shop, probab
ly—and both of you come back, lock all doors and ground-floor windows.”
“More trouble?”
“Get movin’, gal.”
If the apes showed up—no, when they showed up—if their leader chose to break into a locked house, well, he might have to turn Mike loose on them. But this warfare had to stop—which meant that Jubal must get through to the Secretary General.
How?
Call the Palace? Heinrich had probably been telling the truth when he said that a renewed attempt would simply be referred to Heinrich—or whatever S.S. boss was warming that chair. Well? It would surprise them to have a man they had sent a squad to arrest blandly phoning in, face to face—he might be able to bull his way to the top. Commandant What’s-his-name, chap with a face like a well-fed ferret. Twitchell. The commanding officer of the S.S. buckos would have access to the boss.
No good. It would be a waste of breath to tell a man who believes in guns that you’ve got something better. Twitchell would keep on throwing men and guns till he ran out of both—but he would never admit he couldn’t bring in a man whose location was known.
Well, when you couldn’t use the front door you slipped in through the back—elementary politics. Damn it, he needed Ben Caxton—Ben would know who had keys to the back door.
But Ben’s absence was the reason for this donkey derby. Since he couldn’t ask Ben, whom did he know who would know?
Hell’s halfwit, he had been talking to one! Jubal turned to the phone and tried to raise Tom Mackenzie, running into three layers of interference, all of whom knew him and passed him along. While he was doing this, his staff and the Man from Mars came in; they sat down, Miriam stopping to write on a pad: “Doors and windows locked.”
Jubal nodded and wrote below it: “Larry-panic button?” then said to the screen, “Tom, sorry to bother you again.”
“A pleasure, Jubal.”
“Tom, if you wanted to talk to Secretary General Douglas, how would you go about it?”
“Eh? I’d phone his press secretary, Jim Sanforth. I wouldn’t talk to the Secretary General; Jim would handle it.”
“But suppose you wanted to talk to Douglas himself.”
“Why, I’d let Jim arrange it. Be quicker to tell Jim my problem, though. Look, Jubal, the network is useful to the administration—and they know it. But we don’t presume on it.”
“Tom, suppose you just had to speak to Douglas. In the next ten minutes.”
Mackenzie’s eyebrows went up. “Well . . . if I had to, I would explain to Jim why it was—”
“No.”
“Be reasonable.”
“That’s what I can’t be. Assume that you had caught Sanforth stealing the spoons, so you couldn’t tell him what the emergency was. But you had to speak to Douglas immediately.”
Mackenzie sighed. “I would tell Jim that I had to talk to the boss—and that if I wasn’t through to him right away, the administration would never get another trace of support from the network.”
“Okay, Tom, do it.”
“Huh?”
“Call the Palace on another instrument—and be ready to cut me in instantly. I’ve got to talk to the Secretary General right now!”
Mackenzie looked pained. “Jubal, old friend—”
“Meaning you won’t.”
“Meaning I can’t. You’ve dreamed up a hypothetical situation in which a—pardon me—major executive of a global network could speak to the Secretary General. But I can’t hand this entree to somebody else. Look, Jubal, I respect you. The network would hate to lose you and we are painfully aware that you won’t let us tie you down to a contract. But I can’t do it. One does not telephone the World chief of government unless he wants to speak to you.”
“Suppose I sign an exclusive seven-year contract?”
Mackenzie looked as if his teeth hurt. “I still couldn’t. I’d lose my job—and you would have to carry out your contract.”
Jubal considered calling Mike into pickup and naming him. But Mackenzie’s own programs had run the fake “Man from Mars” interviews—and Mackenzie was either in on the hoax—or he was honest, as Jubal thought, and would not believe that he had been hoaxed. “All right, Tom. But you know your way around in the government. Who calls Douglas whenever he likes—and gets him? I don’t mean Sanforth.”
“No one.”
“Damn it, no man lives in a vacuum! There must be people who can phone him and not get brushed off by a secretary.”
“Some of his cabinet, I suppose. Not all of them.”
“I don’t know any of them, either. I don’t mean politicos. Who can call him on a private line and invite him to play poker?”
“Um . . . you don’t want much, do you? Well, there’s Jake Allenby.”
“I’ve met him. He doesn’t like me. I don’t like him. He knows it.”
“Douglas doesn’t have many intimate friends. His wife rather discourages—Say, Jubal . . . how do you feel about astrology?”
“Never touch the stuff. Prefer brandy.”
“Well, that’s a matter of taste. But—see here, Jubal, if you ever let on I told you this, I’ll cut your lying throat.”
“Noted. Agreed. Proceed.”
“Well, Agnes Douglas does touch the stuff . . . and I know where she gets it. Her astrologer can call Mrs. Douglas any time—and, believe you me, Mrs. Douglas has the ear of the Secretary General. You can call her astrologer . . . and the rest is up to you.”
“I don’t recall any astrologers on my Christmas card list,” Jubal answered dubiously. “What’s his name?”
“Her. Her name is Madame Alexandra Vesant, Washington Exchange. That’s V, E, S, A, N, T.”
“I’ve got it,” Jubal said happily. “Tom, you’ve done me a world of good!”
“Hope so. Anything for the network?”
“Hold it.” Jubal glanced at a note Miriam had placed at his elbow. It read: “Larry says the transceiver won’t trans-he doesn’t know why.” Jubal went on, “That spot coverage failed through a transceiver failure.”
“I’ll send somebody.”
“Thanks. Thanks twice.”
Jubal switched off, placed the call by name and instructed the operator to use hush and scramble if the number was equipped for it. It was, not to his surprise. Soon Madame Vesant’s dignified features appeared in his screen. He grinned at her and called, “Hey, Rube!”
She looked startled, then stared. “Why, Doc Harshaw, you old scoundrel! Lord love you, it’s good to see you. Where have you been hiding?”
“Just that, Becky—hiding. The clowns are after me.”
Becky Vesey answered instantly, “What can I do to help? Do you need money?”
“I’ve got plenty of money, Becky. I’m in much more serious trouble than that—and nobody can help me but the Secretary General himself. I need to talk to him—right away.”
She looked blank. “That’s a tall order, Doc.”
“Becky, I know. I’ve been trying to get through to him . . . and I can’t. But don’t you get mixed up in it . . . girl, I’m hotter than a smoky bearing. I took a chance that you might be able to advise me—a phone number, maybe, where I could reach him. But I don’t want you in it personally. You’d get hurt—and I’d never be able to look the Professor in the eye . . . God rest his soul.”
“I know what the Professor would want me to do!” she said sharply. “Knock off the nonsense, Doc. The Professor always swore that you were the only sawbones fit to carve people. He never forgot that time in Elkton.”
“Now, Becky, we won’t bring that up. I was paid.”
“You saved his life.”
“I did no such thing. It was his will to fight—and your nursing.”
“Uh . . . Doc, we’re wasting time. Just how hot are you?”
“They’re throwing the book . . . and anybody near me will get splashed. There’s a warrant out—a Federation warrant—and they know where I am and I can’t run. It will be served any minute . . . and Mr. Douglas
is the only person who can stop it.”
“You’ll be sprung. I guarantee that.”
“Becky . . . I’m sure you would. But it might take a few hours. It’s that ‘back room,’ Becky. I’m too old for a session in the back room.”
“But—Oh, goodness! Doc, can’t you give me some details? I ought to cast a horoscope, then I’d know what to do. You’re Mercury, of course, since you’re a doctor. But if I knew what house to look in, I could do better.”
“Girl, there isn’t time.” Jubal thought rapidly. Whom to trust? “Becky, just knowing could put you in as much trouble as I am in.”
“Tell me, Doc. I’ve never taken a powder at a clem yet—and you know it.”
“All right. So I’m ‘Mercury.’ But the trouble lies in Mars.”
She looked at him sharply. “How?”
“You’ve seen the news. The Man from Mars is supposed to be in the Andes. Well, he’s not. That’s just to hoax the yokels.”
Becky seemed not as startled as Jubal had expected. “Where do you figure in this, Doc?”
“Becky, there are people all over this sorry planet who want to lay hands on that boy. They want to use him, make him geek. He’s my client and I won’t hold still for it. But my only chance is to talk with Mr. Douglas.”
“The Man from Mars is your client? You can turn him up?”
“Only to Mr. Douglas. You know how it is, Becky—the mayor can be a good Joe, kind to children and dogs. But he doesn’t know everything his town clowns do—especially if they haul a man in and take him into that back room.”
She nodded. “Cops!”
“So I need to dicker with Mr. Douglas before they haul me in.”
“All you want is to talk to him?”
“Yes. Let me give you my number—and I’ll sit here, hoping for a call . . . until they pick me up. If you can’t swing it . . . thanks anyway, Becky. I’ll know you tried.”
“Don’t switch off!”
“Eh?”
“Keep the circuit, Doc. If I have any luck, they can patch through this phone and save time. So hold on.” Madame Vesant left the screen, called Agnes Douglas. She spoke with calm confidence, pointing out that this was the development foretold by the stars—exactly on schedule. Now had come the critical instant when Agnes must guide her husband, using her womanly wit and wisdom to see that he acted wisely and without delay. “Agnes dear, this configuration will not be repeated in a thousand years—Mars, Venus, and Mercury in perfect trine, just as Venus reaches meridian, making Venus dominant. Thus you see—”