"Why bother? Why don't you go in openly, in force, and see what's happening?"
"Because I'm not willing to admit—officially—that anything at all is happening. Remember, a trip to a Tandy is supposed to be a one-way ticket. To change that policy for more than a few people would cost me too much equity. In any case, collecting information is a tricky business. Access is the first requirement. Your record will help you gain that access, to criminals or to scientists. And the second requirement of information collection is to understand what you hear. No one on my roster is as well qualified as you are. The leaders can use any language they like, but you will be able to follow it And speak it, too—though that might be unwise."
Behind Wilfred Dell, a carved clock hanging on the wall began a strange buzzing. A door opened in its front, and a little painted skeleton emerged. Job heard an unfamiliar C-minor dirge on musical bells, and a rattling of bones.
"Midnight already. Where does the time go?" Dell smiled, a brief gleam of teeth. "We must wrap this up. I have other obligations."
He turned to stare at and through the white wall to the left of him. In the bright light the pupils of his eyes seemed to vanish, while their irises passed though a color shift to paler blue. He was still wearing his half-smile. Job suddenly saw before him a grinning gnome of lust, straight from a five hundred-year-old woodcut.
"I'm sure that you will have more questions," went on Dell. "But is there anything that cannot wait for tomorrow?"
"You haven't told me what you want me to do."
"True. But does it matter, beyond the fact that you will seek information? The main thing is to know where you are going, and why you were chosen. Tomorrow will do for the rest of it."
"Do I have any choices?"
"Ah, that is a nice question." Dell leaned back in his chair. "Technically, you do. You can go to Xanadu on my behalf, find what I need, and come back. Or you could go into the Tandy and loaf about until you die there. Or, if you were really a masochist, you could encourage me to present your entire folder to Reginald Brook. I would not deny such a request, but I hope you will not consider such a foolish action. I like you, Job. Now, is there any final question?"
"You promised to tell me who you are."
"So I did. Hmm. I assume from your dossier that you never attended school after your first flight from Cloak House?"
"I never did."
"You were lucky. But it means that you will have to take my next statement on faith. Although the schoolchildren of this country emerge from our institutions of supposed learning ninety percent illiterate, knowing nothing of science, nothing of technology, little geography, and less history, every one of them will tell you who rules the country. We are governed by the interaction of a President, learned judges, and our peoples' representatives.
"Every child knows this; and every child is wrong. Perhaps it was once that way, but today the Court and President and Congress are either members of the old and wealthiest families, like the Michelsons and Brooks; or they have been bought and controlled by them. The sprawl of government passes and implements policies. But far fewer people, about a hundred in number, set policies.
"I, and a handful like me, serve the interests of what we term the Royal Hundred. Our job is to make sure that their families, people like Stella, can live lives of perfect irresponsibility in the midst of global chaos. She must never have to worry about a thing. Others will take care of her food, her travel plans, all her material needs. She must be able to walk out into the most dangerous city on Earth, with not a thought for her personal safety. It is my job to guarantee that safety. Sometimes—like yesterday—I can come close to failure. But usually I do very well. I feel sorry for the failures, because Reginald and friends are not tolerant people. But as you see, success has its perquisites."
Wilfred Dell glanced smugly around his office, and again stared at the wall next to him.
Sorry for the failures? There was no trace of compassion in Wilfred Dell's face. Job recalled one of Father Bonifant's warnings, when he reminded Job to be careful of possible thieves and murderers on the streets of the city: "There is no end to Our Lord's mercy and compassion, and there is no one so bad that he or she cannot be saved. But there are those who will not be saved. The world contains people who are truly evil."
There was a dreadful plausibility and friendliness to Wilfred Dell, but his smile seemed to Job to be truly evil. Whatever he did, whatever he made Job do, it would be only to serve his own purposes. He would allow nothing to jeopardize his own position. He appeared quite invulnerable.
But perhaps there were chinks in even that armor of self-confidence.
"And one day," said Job innocendy, "I suppose that you will be one of the Royal Hundred."
Dell scowled. "One is born to that status, one does not ascend to it. The hundred are drawn only from the Brooks and Michelsons, and families like them."
He stood up abruptly and turned away. In the instant before the cherub's face became hidden, Job saw that all satisfaction had vanished from it. He understood, and was perversely pleased.
Wilfred Dell claimed that he liked Job. Perhaps he did, a little. Perhaps he even liked Job as much as he liked anyone. He probably had no one that he loved, as others used the word love.
But he did have someone that he hated.
What would please Wilfred Dell more than anything would be to send Reginald Brook and the rest of the Royal Hundred on a one-way trip to the Great Nebraska Tandy.
Chapter Twelve
I go whence I shall not return, even to the
land of darkness and the shadow of death.
— The Book of Job, Chapter 10, Verse 21
Job had seen maps of the country. He knew that the Nebraska Tandy lay more than a thousand miles west, fifty times as far from the city as he had ever been, halfway to the western ocean. But maps were one thing. Physical experience was another.
Thirteen hundred miles by aircraft, eighteen hundred by road: it meant eternity, seven bruising days sitting in a hard seat on a stinking, broken-springed bus, with no chance to wash or change clothes. As they came closer to their destination, Job yearned for the sight of the Nebraska Tandy. Anything was better than another day of travel.
Outside it had been snowing for forty-eight hours. Inside it was hot and stifling, with the stench of sick and pent-up humans growing steadily worse. The bus rumbled on at a steady thirty miles an hour, over ruler-straight roads whose surface was cracked and broken. On either side, the white plain ran from horizon to horizon. Xanadu should be only a couple of hours ahead. Job stared out through the forward window.
Now and again they hit a real break in the roadbed, one that jolted every passenger and threw them from side to side. No one but Job seemed to notice. They slumped on the frayed seats, eyes open and placid. Back in the city, Job had been the first to board. He had watched in horror as the bus made its stops and the other prisoners appeared. They were all men, and every one was pleasure-drugged to the point where no physical discomfort would rouse them. At four-hour intervals during the journey, the two drivers moved around the bus and stuck a little patch onto each prisoner's neck. Job had ripped his off before there could be any effect, but the pads proved to be no more than skin-penetrating stimulants. Within thirty seconds the others were sitting up and taking notice. They were fed a packaged meal and permitted to use the roadside as a toilet. In five more minutes the jolt from the stick-on patch wore off. The prisoners returned to their usual blissful apathy. Sores from the seats were ignored. As the days wore on, the trance deepened. Some of the prisoners began to foul themselves where they sat.
Seeing them at the beginning of the journey, Job had appreciated the favor that Wilfred Dell had done in decreeing that Job did not need to be sedated, and that his drip-I/V could contain not drugs but water. By the third day he was not so sure. The other prisoners could not talk to him, or he to them. He could not speak to the driver or his assistant without revealing his own unique situati
on. And the ride was too bumpy to let him sleep for more than a few hours a night. All he could do was ride the jolts, stare out at the dreary landscape, and worry.
Their destination lay almost exactly due west. But they had angled at first to the north, into colder weather and forlorn countryside. Mile after mile, their route passed old and derelict wayside structures, motels and repair shops and restaurants and gas stations and food stands. In front of them, squatting at the roadside, sat newer and smaller buildings of wood and sheet metal. Behind everything, fading off to wooded hills and bare fields, were family vegetable plots.
Were there thousands after countless thousands of them, or was there just one, endlessly repeated? Job saw in each field the same stooped elders and the same tiny children, scrabbling in wet dirt.
During the second day the country changed. The bus chugged through a sterile, deep-scarred terrain of pits and quarries. Beside the old strip mines, scrawny yellow-flowered plants struggled to find a hold in steep-sided slag heaps, more harsh and inhospitable than fresh volcanic lava. Nothing else grew, from horizon to horizon. But still there were people, patiently sifting the rubble.
Job had no idea what they were seeking. There was no one that he could ask. He leaned his forehead on the seat in front and closed his eyes. Still he saw the array of slag heaps and quarries, marching off to infinity.
Could the Nebraska Tandy be worse than this? It was hard to see how. The pictures that Wilfred Dell had shown suggested pleasant and peaceful communities, not a hell on Earth . . .
"Two years ago." Dell tapped the table-sized color print. "This is what the spacebirds sent back from a routine scan of Xanadu. There was nothing interesting, except that right here"— he touched the place with the end of a pencil—"an area was being cleared around one of the towns. This is Techville, where most of the scientists sent to the Tandy live."
Job leaned over the table. The image was an oblique shot, taken in full sunlight and with excellent detail. The prospect was pleasant. He saw nothing but a well-organized town, laid out as rings of buildings around a central cleared area.
"Now, look at a year and a half ago." Dell slid another print partly over the first. "A fence has gone up, all the way around the town. And another fence is being built here." He ran his pencil point over a rectangular region close to the town center. "So, you tell me. Why would anyone build fences like that inside a Tandy? Are they there to keep something out, or to keep something in?
"Every space image receives its own analysis. The fences were noted, but no action was taken. No one brought this to my attention. Even if they had, I'd have thought nothing of it. So now we come to this, one year ago."
The new print on the table was at a finer scale than the earlier two. The small rectangular region filled the whole scene.
"See the people outside that small building," said Wilfred Dell. "Mostly they work inside, but on this shot our viewing system got lucky. The analysts zoomed in to the highest resolution available. They could see enough to pick out faces, and ask the computers to enhance them and look for matches in the main data bank. That's when they made an identification of one of the people outside the building." Dell slid a full-face ID photograph in front ofJob. "Dr. Hanna Kronberg. That's when I was called in. I've been tracking Hanna for over seven years— "
Since that first sight Job had spent a lot of time studying the subject of that photograph, in every light and from every angle. As he leaned with eyes closed on the bus seat in front of him, he could see Hanna Kronberg now in his mind's eye. If ever they met he would recognize her at once. But he was less confident than Wilfred Dell that the meeting would ever take place.
If Dr. Kronberg were inside that fenced area, Job would have to find a way to be invited in. That seemed an impossible task. Even if she were outside Techville, the chance of a random meeting was slight. The population of Xanadu was a hundred thousand, maybe more as new prisoners were poured in. No one on the outside was sure of the present number, and if the people inside took a census they kept it to themselves. Job was beginning to think of the Tandy as a separate nation. Nothing was sent in but toxic wastes, radioactive material, and condemned criminals. Nothing came out. Mean life expectancy within Xanadu: one and a half years.
He shifted on his uncomfortable seat and stared around at the others in the bus. Everyone here was doomed, except—just possibly—Job. He wondered at his companions' offenses. If one happened to be another Hanna Kronberg, a condemned scientist of great brilliance and reputation, he would not know it. Every face on the bus was pleasure-sated and lethargic.
But someone might not be what they seemed. Job recalled Wilfred Dell's words: "It is not a matter of trust. It is that more than one point of view is valuable. So there will be others in my employ, seeking to crack the secret of the Nebraska Tandy. You will not know their identities, as they do not know yours. You will each serve as an independent check on the others. I hope that at least one of you succeeds."
There was no reason for Job to assume that another agent in Dell's service would be on this same bus; but there was no reason to assume that he or she was not. . . .
* * *
After the gouged landscape of the strip mines finally ended, the highway improved. The bus picked up speed to nearly fifty. On their right lay a vast lake, on the left an unbroken vista ofbuildings was coming into view.
It had to be Lake Michigan, the second of the Great Lakes on their route west. They had already skirted Lake Erie from Cleveland to Toledo, but that had happened in the middle of the night. Job knew of it only because he had heard the night shift driver talking the next morning, complaining about the smell that came off the water.
Job studied the wind-ruffled waters off to his right. Lake Michigan was just as acid and necrotic as the other lakes; yet there were people all the way along the shore. Ignoring a cold rain they were paddling in the chill lake water, probing at the bottom with sticks.
What could they be doing? The last fish had vanished from the lakes a generation ago, well before the Quiebra Grande. Phosphate runoff had filled the lake with the green slime of algal bloom, but that was not edible. Maybe the people had come from the sprawl of Greater Chicago, simply because there was no place left in the whole city where they could live. More and more cities were ridding themselves of the homeless and the indigent, trucking them far beyond city limits and dropping them off to fend for themselves. How long before the countryside itself was full, and everyplace was chock-a-block? According to Wilfred Dell, that lay a long time in the future.
"Four hundred million sounds like a lot of people to you, but it isn't. We've not doubled in a generation; some countries in Africa have tripled in that time. China tops one and a half billion, India's the same, Brazil and Mexico and Indonesia and the old Soviet states push six hundred million each. The thing that hurt us the worst was when the economic collapse pulled the rug from industrial development. We could have lived with everything else. You won't believe this until you've seen other places, but this is still a rich country."
Job didn't believe it. Unless it were possible to have a rich country filled with poor people. But hadn't the last Depression, ninety years ago, been exactly that? Starving people, and abundant resources all around. Maybe Wilfred Dell was right. So far he had been right about everything else.
Job leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. Right about everything, including his assessment of Hanna Kronberg?
"They kept the watch going, but there's been no more sightings of Kronberg. It would be blind luck if there were one—naturally, she'll mostly stay inside the buildings because that's where her work is. I wouldn't have sent her to the Tandy at all. Damned do-gooder, ready to change the world—I would have had her killed, the moment I caught her." The cherub's face still wore its half-smile. "But unfortunately she was caught out on the West Coast, and shipped before I could have a say in it."
Job studied the pictures of Hanna Kronberg. She was a short, gray-haired woman of casual
dress. He knew that physical appearance told little of a person's mind, but the face was good-humored and relaxed, with twinkling blue eyes. And this was supposed to be the most dangerous woman in the country?
"You're like everyone else," said Dell. "You look at her, and you think, that's just a harmless little lady. But I've been on to her for over six years. You have to know about her work to know her. I don't pretend to understand the technical material, but I do understand her aims.
"She's a brilliant biologist who became a fanatic on the subject of world hunger. She was once married to Raoul Kronberg, another biologist. When the Quiebra Grande hit he was on a field trip in South America, in the high Andes. The funds for his project were cut off overnight. The helicopter that was supposed to bring him and the rest of his party out was never sent, and finally they had to trek down on foot over a hundred and fifty miles of rough terrain. One of them made it—not Raoul Kronberg. The others were found later. They starved to death.
"That's when Hanna got the bee in her bonnet. She learned that Raoul had starved and died, in a place where lots of animals survive very well. They do it because they can digest cellulose, the woody material in stems and leaves. Hanna was a specialist in recombinant DNA technology, splicing genetic material to make new living organisms that do things no natural organism has ever done. She decided to make a hybrid that would live in the human gut and let people digest cellulose."
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