Red Heroin

by Jerry Pournelle

  These parties are unbelievable. Everything happens at them. People sit around, mostly on the floor, and talk about inconsequential things as if they're the most important events in the world. Or they talk about important things like war and atom bombs, but all they say are trivial things. I have never heard a brilliant conversation about anything important at one, but I'll admit there's enough intellectual talent around at any given party to have one. I think it's mostly that they're already locked onto their ideas on anything that matters, so the only way they can demonstrate their brilliance to each other is to talk seriously about something trivial.

  Carole and I circulated around, and I noted that she stayed pretty close to me. We lit in a corner and three or four of the old crowd my age drifted over. One of them asked me how things were going, and that seemed as good an opportunity as any.

  "Good. I've made so much money I'm going down and buy another sailboat. You'll have to come out with me after I get it."

  Carole leaned over toward me. The buttoned shirt didn't give you much view when she bent over, but even so you could tell that there would be a worthwhile one if she had on the right clothes. "Are you getting a big boat?"

  "Not too big. Four or five berths maybe. Just big enough for me to take a vacation to Victoria in a week or two."

  Carole seemed interested, but no more than any girl who was out with a guy about to buy a yacht. Nobody else seemed to give much of a damn either. I opened another beer and we talked about Russian art. It was the general consensus that it was degenerate. I noticed that even I couldn't say any worse things about Russian art than they did, which was quite a change from my student days.

  All in all I must have made my revelation to everyone in the room, one way or another. It wasn't hard to bring up in the context of what we were all doing with the summer. Just as I was getting sick of talking about the joys of sailing in the San Juans, I noticed John Murray was looking interested. He still hadn't spoken to me, and didn't, but I was pretty sure he heard my spiel. He also noted that I was with Carole. I let my rambling anecdote about the last sail I'd had up there trail off, and we got back to something else inane. I wasn't getting drunk, but I'd had enough in the Tavern and there to loosen up a bit, so when the singing started I was ready to join in. That stopped all conversation anyway, and went on for half an hour or so. Most of the songs had to do with the wonderful things that would happen when the old order passed away. They always did at those parties. But they're great songs. The conservatives ought to get some good ones like that, because as it happens, when it comes to songs that appeal to the younger set, the snake has all the lines.

  I didn't figure to stay till the close of the party, and Carole agreed. It was hard to tell what was on her mind. As far as I could see, she liked my company and was having a good time. She was pleasant herself, so I couldn't complain. In fact, the only thing that bothered me was that I felt I was using her. Well, maybe she felt the same way.

  As we drove off, I said, "Something to eat? Hamburgers at the Nasty Tasty?"

  "Sure."

  We drove on. As we got back over the bridge across the ship canal, I said, "We could stop at my place, and I'll cook something. I haven't had anybody around to cook for a while, and I feel the urge."

  "Great. I still haven't seen your house."

  We got there, and she was properly appreciative of everything. While we were eating, the subject of the boat came up again.

  "Are you really going to buy a boat tomorrow?" she asked.

  "I'm going to look. I have a pretty good idea of what I want, so maybe something will be done, like I might make an offer. Want to come along?"

  "Yes. But I don't know much about boats."

  "That's all right. You can learn. I didn't know a damn thing about them until I moved to Seattle, but there's so much water around I thought I was missing something, not learning to sail. So I learned and now I'm hooked. Better watch it or you will be too."

  We finished and got up, and it was very still in the house. There was that feeling in the air that happens when a man and a girl are alone together. I still felt it was a little cold-blooded, but biology was taking over fast.

  Carole was a little tense too. I took a step toward her, and sort of reached, and she took half a step toward me, and there we were. After a little while we went in the study and sat on the couch, and things went on some more. By now biology was in pretty complete control for me. Probably her too.

  I broke it off and said, "If I'm going to get up at any reasonable hour, I've got to get to bed. Still want to come with me tomorrow?"

  She nodded. Then she got up and we started back through the dining room to the kitchen, so we could get out. My bedroom door also opens off the dining room, and instead of going to the kitchen she turned in there. "It seems a little silly to go home and then come back, doesn't it?" she smiled. I went in after her and closed the door.

  I don't know whether Jim Randall had been teaching her or not. Somebody had done a damn good job, anyway.

  Chapter Five

  I woke up but it took me a couple of minutes to get used to the idea that the bed had somebody else in it. She was lying there asleep, slightly turned away from me, and her hair was spread out around her head, and she was beautiful. It bothered me that she might have been sent here by somebody else. Then I remembered that she was there because I was sent out to find her. Well, you could make a lot of philosophical nonsense out of that if you wanted to, but it didn't seem too good an idea.

  It was ten-thirty, and I had to get up if I was going to look at boats. Getting a sailboat out of the deal was one thing that made this counterspy bit look better, and I thought I had best do it before Shearing changed his mind. She woke up when I started to sit up.

  "Hi," she said. She had a little girl look, like I'd imagined a new bride might look before I found out better. She started to sit up and the sheet fell off from around her. I put an arm out and she moved closer, and things went on from there. This time it didn't seem very cold-blooded at all.

  After I got up and started the coffee, it came to me that I could get pretty fond of this girl. That didn't fit in very well with Shearing's plans, but on the other hand she didn't seem much like the type who'd be interested in helping Red China. I was putting some nice pictures together about that when I remembered her picture in the paper, demonstrating against the war. She was in with a group which periodically tried to stop troops from sailing out of Pier 91 for the Far East. Then I got quite an argument going with myself about that. I mean, these kids did think they were helping the Chinese, but that wasn't supposed to be the main purpose.

  Main purpose or not, I couldn't help remembering what Shearing had said just before he dropped me off. The war wasn't going to be won in Asia. It was going to be won right here in the U.S., because if people could get convinced we shouldn't be in it, the Chinese could take over without any trouble. How much was that worth to them?

  I decided it was easier to just do the job I was supposed to do and be done with it. It doesn't take any particular philosophy to want to stop the importation of dope. If most of these kids knew where the money for their anti-war demonstrations came from they'd probably get out too. The trouble is that a true believer can always find a reason not to believe something bad about his cause, and we couldn't prove a thing in court without exposing most of the counterespionage people in the FBI. That was what was worrying Louis Alessandro, and the main reason why he was letting Shearing in on the situation. Shearing could recruit amateurs like me, and maybe we could help get some convictions without blowing Alessandro's people out of their cover. At least that was the story Shearing told the FBI. From what I had seen of Shearing he wouldn't let anybody get within a mile of a courtroom, and I wondered how he'd convinced Alessandro he would. Maybe he hadn't. Saying he would give the FBI a story they could use if things went sour, and after all it wasn't their agency that might get in trouble. The hell with it. My job was to find out a name. That was tough
enough without solving problems of moral philosophy.

  Carole was cheerful at breakfast, and afterwards we drove down to the boat yards along Lake Union and the ship canal. There are a lot of them, and at any given time you'll find dozens of boats for sale. The limit of twelve thousand dollars Shearing had put on, plus the requirement that we be able to take cruises within two weeks, meant that I had to find a used boat. I saw six or eight I liked in the first two places we went, but none of them reached out and grabbed me, so we went on. Carole seemed very interested in everything and made it a pleasant day, even though we had the usual Seattle clouds and spots of drizzle.

  Then we drove down to the Aurora Bridge. There are a couple of little boat yards there, tucked under this high bridge. The lake narrows down to a canal just at the bridge, and this was once a very busy district in Seattle. Clusters of houseboats, decaying old mansions, new businesses, and boat yards where real sailors instead of clubhouse ones keep their boats make it one of my favorite places in Seattle. The sun came out just as we got to Doc Freeman's. Doc always has used boats, and even before we got down into his yard I saw what I wanted.

  She was an old sloop rerigged to make her a masthead cutter. The "For Sale" sign said she was thirty-four feet long, but she looked bigger. There wasn't anything extreme about her; she was one of those boats built back when they didn't design to racing rules but just tried to design good boats. She'd be fast, and she carried a lot of sail. The cutter rig would be useful to let you reduce sail easily in the Straits, and that was important because it blows hard around Vancouver Island in the afternoons. There were four berths, one of them quite wide so that it could serve as a double. That's unusual in an older boat. The new boats have double berths because they're meant to be sold to people who don't know much about sailing; if you've ever tried to sleep in a real blow you'll appreciate narrow berths that hold you in one place. Still, for what I had in mind, this one looked like what I wanted. She was called Witch of Endor, and after looking her over I decided I wanted her.

  It took three hours of dickering to get Doc to throw in the equipment I needed with the price. He had a certificate of survey so I wouldn't have to have that done. With some brokers it's still a good idea to have your own survey made, but not Doc. He's sharp, but if he tells you something straight out, it's true.

  I finally got it arranged, signed an offer which Doc said he was sure would be accepted, told him I'd arrange my own financing through a bank, and Carole and I took her out. There wasn't enough wind to sail, but the little Gray engine was quiet enough for it to be a pleasant trip around the lake. Witch handled very well, and I knew I wouldn't have any trouble learning her likes and dislikes. We cruised down by the houseboats and I pointed out where the party had been to Carole. When we came closer, we could see there were still some people on the porch looking out at the water.

  It isn't a good idea to try to put a boat in at a dock until you have some experience with how she drifts, but I tested the engine and the reverse worked very well, so I eased her up to the houseboat and tied alongside. Ron was sitting there drinking beer and offered us some. He wanted to look at the boat and after I made him take his shoes off he came aboard.

  "Nice toy," he said.

  "This isn't a toy," Carole told him. "Paul says he could sail it anywhere in the world."

  I laughed. "What I said was that people have taken boats like this all over the world. I didn't say I'd do it."

  "But you said you'd go to Victoria in her. Next week."

  "That's hardly around the world. But I'm sure going to do that. I've been looking forward to this vacation for a year now."

  Ron looked up the mast and down into the cabin and then sat with us in the cockpit. "Have any trouble with the fuzz sailing into Canada?" he asked.

  "No," I told him. "Only time I ever heard of a customs man looking at a private yacht was once they looked to see if a friend of mine had liquor aboard, and then all they did was see if he had several cases. Just barely looked around the boat. George told me later that he thought they seemed more interested in admiring the boat than anything else. I suppose if you had some reputation as a smuggler they'd take the boat apart, but I never heard of a Seattle yachtsman having any real trouble at all."

  "How long does it take to get there?" he asked.

  "Oh, depends on the wind. With the motor, and if you don't mind going straight through, you could leave at noon and be in Victoria the next night without any trouble. That's allowing for taking it easy and not doing anything stupid. It's not all that far, and by water it's a lot closer than driving to Vancouver and taking the ferry over."

  "Sounds like a nice trip." Ron jumped back over to his porch and got some more beer. It was getting on toward evening and I didn't own the boat yet, so we left in the middle of the second can.

  Lake Union is really quite pretty in an ugly sort of way. People are always filling in some of it to expand their shore facilities and one of these days it will all be gone, I guess, and I'll be sorry. It's right in the middle of the city and you can see a good part of Seattle from your boat. The Space Needle with its super modern construction is quite a contrast to the old warehouses and docks by the water. Carole said she hadn't been out on the lake before, and we talked about how it was different from the way things looked from a houseboat.

  "The lake's pretty," I told her, "and the Sound is nice too, but neither one of them is much compared to what you see after you get out of Admiralty and up in the San Juans. That's the nicest country in the world. It's always raining in Seattle, but up there, not fifty miles away, it's a completely different climate. The area around Admiralty has sunshine and wind all the time."

  She didn't say anything, and I didn't want to push it. I mean, it wouldn't have done to talk her into making the trip with me if all it was would be a girl going sailing with a guy, would it? We secret agents can't afford just to have a good time. At least not in a boat paid for out of the secret funds.

  I got the boat back to Doc's and dropped Carole off at her place. She said she'd change and come to my house about eight. Nothing was said about where she'd spend the night, but it didn't look like I'd be alone. After I let her out, I drove carefully back toward my place. There wasn't any traffic, and I could be sure nobody was paying any attention to me. I parked the car near the house and walked over to the campus.

  The University of Washington is Modern Gothic, which means that they used modern materials to make medieval looking structures. There are also some white marble buildings of a more classic design, and now they've built some Modern Ugly style glass piles. I liked the cathedral look of the old buildings, and I don't think the new stuff improves it at all. They'd be nice if that's all there were but when your library is a copy of a French cathedral, an addition made out of steel and glass just looks stupid.

  I didn't recognize anybody, so I used the telephone booth near the library. Shearing wasn't in the office, and I didn't particularly like describing my relationship with Carole to somebody I'd never met, but he couldn't seem less interested. As far as he knew I was just a code name—"Larry"—and he didn't even know what I was working on, or said he didn't. I reported that I had arranged for a boat, let everybody in the District know I had one and would sail it to Victoria in a week or so, and that I was on intimate terms with Carole Halleck, relation to the target group unknown but suspected. I also reported that John Murray had seemed interested in a mild sort of way when I mentioned boat trips, and gave him a list of everybody I remembered at the YPSAL party.

  There weren't any instructions for me, so I went back home. Going into the house I picked up the Sunday papers. I hadn't had a chance to read the papers since Friday night.

  It was all over the second section. The story was that some dope smugglers had been intercepted by two deputy sheriffs, and a gun battle followed. The Lathrop town marshal responded to the sheriff's call for help and had managed to kill two of the smugglers before he was shot. The deputy got the other. No mention
of any Lathrop deputy marshal, and not a trace of a dead CIA man either. That was what Shearing said would come out, and it was nice to see that he'd got that part arranged all right. The papers also said that the Treasury people were looking for the distribution organization, and there was quite a long feature article on the rise of heroin addiction among teenagers and college students. There wasn't a word about a tie-in between dope and Red China.

  That bothered me a little. I couldn't see how the Chinese wouldn't know the CIA was involved and knew about their operation, so why keep it a secret? Why not let people know how the Chinese worked? It might keep some of the kids from getting involved in this. It's one thing to work for world peace, and it's quite another to help ruin lives with dope. But they didn't pay me for thinking about that, so I decided not to.

  Carole came over at seven thirty, carrying a little overnight bag and some school books. I didn't say anything about it, and she left the stuff at the house when we went out to eat. We walked over to the District and I decided that since I was on an expense account we might as well eat good, so I took her to the Armenian's place. This was a rundown old wood building that had once been a bookstore owned by a woman who claimed to be a witch. Witch or not, she acted like one. She also had cats, three or four of them. Tiger had fathered a litter of kittens on one, and that made about nine cats, and maybe that's why she lost her lease. Anyway the place was taken over by a Finn for a restaurant. The witch told everybody she had put a curse on the man, and maybe she had, because not only didn't the place get much business, but the Finn had stepped off a ladder while trying to decorate, and broke a leg. An Armenian fellow took over from him, and he was doing all right.