“A civilization without your kind of people might take a new and better course,” said Movius.
O’Brien’s eyes narrowed to slits; he sat back, lowered his chin.
Movius looked past O’Brien to the other chart, noted the single red line moving upward to the right. Without being told, he suddenly realized that single line had something to do with his life. It was a flash of prescience. With the thought, he knew he must not let O’Brien suspect the chart’s secret was known. Movius pushed himself up from the chair. I’m important to him in some way, he thought. But what way? It’s not as a spy. That’s a cover for something else. And Grace is important to him, too. How?
“You have your information,” said Movius. “Next time contact me in a more conventional manner. Otherwise I might not be as cooperative.” He strode around the table, stopped beside O’Brien. “Have a car ready for me downstairs.” The mood of perversity returned. “My wife will be worried. I don’t want her worrying too much … in her condition.”
O’Brien took three deep breaths. “See that you keep your reports complete and accurate.” His voice exposed a mood of petulance quickly masked. “We need the information to predict the exact moment of crisis.”
“Don’t you know already?”
“We think it will coincide with The Coor’s Fall poll.”
Movius smiled. “Ah, the big holiday when all we have to do is bind our chains more tightly.”
“We’re almost certain of it,” said O’Brien.
“And I’m part of your omnipotence,” said Movius.
A cold smile touched O’Brien’s lips. “That is correct.”
“Who’s spying on me?” asked Movius.
“You’d never in a million years guess.”
Movius shrugged.
“We’ll contact you,” said O’Brien, “the next time we need some information.”
“You’re so thoughtful,” said Movius.
Chapter Sixteen
Grace was pacing the floor when he arrived. “Where have you been?” she demanded. “I’ve been frantic!”
Her worry seemed natural, but there was a false note in it somewhere, as though she were worried about something else. He said, “Sit down.”
She went to a chair by the window, sank into it. Movius took a chair opposite her.
Was Grace the spy? It would be logical. But then again …
He leaned forward, told her about the visit with O’Brien, omitting the barb with which he had stung the Bu-Psych chief.
Grace clenched her hands tightly in her lap. “He’s a cruel and callous man.”
“You’ve met him?”
She chewed her lower lip. “I’ve heard about him.”
The pause before she spoke, her nervousness. She was obviously lying. Movius said, “O’Brien thinks …”
The phone in the hall rang once. Grace jumped to her feet, ran to the phone. “Hello.”
Movius turned, watched her, saw Grace glance his direction.
“I can’t,” she said. “It’s impossible.” She listened. “Why, that’s not true! It’s just not true! We haven’t …” Again she listened. “I don’t know why … I told you I can’t do it and that’s final!” She slammed the phone into its cradle, strode back to her chair, sat down. Her lips were compressed and she was shivering.
“Who was that?”
She glanced at him, suddenly turned to face him with that stare he found so uncomfortable. “That was my father.”
Something had upset old Quilliam. Movius said, “What did he want?”
“To see me.” Her eyes remained unwavering.
“Why did he want to see you?”
“He’s heard I was pregnant.”
A sharply indrawn breath was Movius’ first reaction. He exhaled slowly, a stillness coming over him. It was less than an hour since he’d shocked O’Brien with that claim. London! The old man was the spy! He was the kind—a calculating one like O’Brien. All logic and no human feelings. A man with no instincts to trust. He’d pushed them so far under. The pattern began to take shape. Movius looked at Grace. She had pulled back into her chair, was avoiding his eyes. Movius felt a wave of pity for Grace. She was the spy in his house, but he couldn’t find it in him to criticize her for it. Her tears and unhappiness showed clearly how her sympathies were torn. The pity became hate for Quilliam London. Imagine a father using his own daughter as a common pawn in such a game! The cold brutality of it left him numb.
“What are you thinking?” asked Grace.
Every mannerism betrayed her. She was in love with the man she was committed to betray. Again Movius felt the pity for her. He gave a short, mirthless laugh, stood up, went into the bedroom. The city was a dull glow of lights beyond the terrace.
Grace followed him, turned on the bedroom lights.
So it was Grace, he thought. And Navvy, too. The whole damned family! He said, “Dress in the bathroom. I’ll turn my back while you get in bed.”
She went to the closet, pulled out a nightgown. “Our things came while you were out. There were some extras with a card from Mr. Gerard.”
“He’s taking very good care of us,” said Movius. “We’re so valuable to him.” He couldn’t mask the bitterness in his voice.
She remained silent, went into the bathroom.
Movius slipped out of his clothes and into bed, turned his face to the wall. Such a strange relationship they had. He wondered if he shouldn’t end it immediately, discarded that idea, telling himself it was because such a move would reveal his knowledge. He heard the door open, waited for Grace to get into bed. Her voice startled him, coming from right above him. “Dan, I’m frightened.”
He turned over, saw her standing beside his bed in a thin nightgown, the almost girlish curves outlined against the lights behind her.
She saw the direction of his gaze, took an involuntary step backward, then shrugged. “We’re married,” she said. “I guess it doesn’t really matter.” She sat on the edge of his bed, looked toward the windows, hands clasped in her lap.
Movius suddenly realized she had a nice profile. Sweet. Her breasts were fuller than he had thought, rising and falling gently with her breathing.
“I think it was the brutality of those men who searched me.” She twisted her hands in her lap. “And the way you reacted. Violence! It leaves me with a sick feeling, disgusted.”
Poor Grace, he thought. She was in way over her head and couldn’t see which direction to turn. So defenseless. He wanted to reach out, pat her shoulder, comfort her. The poor kid. Somehow he couldn’t do it. That damned callous Quilliam! She stood up, went to her own bed, crawled under the covers, lay back. There was something elfin about her, he thought. Yes, sweet was the word. Sweet and elfin.
“If I could make it to be some other way, I would,” he said. He reached up to the switch on the wall over his head, preparing to turn off the light. A glance at Grace showed the tears running down her cheeks. He clicked the switch, lay back in the darkness.
“You know, don’t you?” she asked, her voice remote.
Had she realized her position is no longer secret? he wondered. “Know what?” he asked.
“That I love you.” The voice so small, so faint.
His feeling was consternation. He didn’t know what to say, waited, feeling like a coward and a fool.
“I understand how it is,” she said. “I’ll hold to our bargain. You can have me any way you want, Dan.”
“Thanks,” he said and could have bitten off his tongue the instant he’d spoken. Sure, thanks for giving me your life, everything you have. Thanks for being so brave in the giving. Sorry it leaves you so poor, old thing. Can’t be helped, I guess.
A dry sob came from Grace’s direction.
This could be even more complex, he thought. She loves me, yet she has to report to her father, who reports to O’Brien. So she offers herself to me to make it up, to ease her conscious. But that was too complicated; that was O’Brien’s type of thinking.
<
br /> “I don’t know what to say,” he said.
“I understand. I know you don’t love me.”
“I don’t know how I feel. I thought all I had room for was hate. I guess I’m still numb inside.”
He was surprised to find this was true.
Through the silence he could hear her uneven breathing. Suddenly, he realized how it must be for a woman like her—something tossed about by the cold logic of men. He remembered that Quilliam London knew she was supposed to be pregnant. And the old man’s first thought had not been of his daughter’s welfare. No. It had been about his precious plans. What made men like Quilliam London? Maybe it was fighting a system they hated and always losing. Or, never quite winning.
“Dan.”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry I’ve complicated your life like this.” Her voice had a little catch in it.
Damn it! She was so absolutely defenseless. He slipped out of bed, was half way across to her before he realized he was nude. In the darkness, what’s the difference? he thought. He knelt beside her bed, reached out, stroked her forehead. “Don’t be sorry, Grace.”
No, don’t be sorry, Grace. Just listen to this one befuddled male trying to make it up to you for the cruelty of other men.
She caught his hand, pressed it against her cheek.
“No man is ever sorry when a woman loves him,” he said. “Especially …” he paused. The lie came quite easily, easier than he had expected. “When he’s in love with that woman.”
Her arms were about his neck, pulling him to her. He found her lips, tasted the salt tears and the gladness. She disengaged one hand, pulled back the blankets, urged him in beside her.
It was like nothing he had ever before experienced. Such a free giving, a happiness. No demanding or taking. Afterward, he went to sleep with his head on her arm, her hand stroking his hair, her voice whispering, “My darling … my darling … my darling …”
Just before he fell asleep the thought came creeping up out of his unconscious. “You knew love would be like this.” He pushed the thought away.
Chapter Seventeen
O’Brien paced his office, pausing occasionally to glare fiercely at Quilliam London, who sat in his accustomed chair at the end of the table, leaning forward to rest his arms upon the wood surface. On a chair beside London were an LP infirmary bag, a dark wig, rubber cheek distenders—his disguise.
The Bu-Psych chief had a feline look as he paced. “And she still refuses to come to you?”
“That’s right. Three days now.” London’s voice sounded tired.
“Doesn’t she realize nothing is more important than getting safely past this crisis?” O’Brien paused in his restless pacing, turned toward London. “What about the Sep organization?”
“I still get some reports,” said London. “The man is a whirlwind. He has a second sight for picking lieutenants who will know exactly what to do.” He drew in a deep breath, exhaled in a sigh. “Grace is the big flaw.”
“We didn’t plan on this.” O’Brien resumed his pacing. “Better alert Navvy to do the job if necessary.”
“I’ve already told him.”
“What’s his reaction?”
“He wants to know if we’re certain Grace loves Movius. And he’s tired of this hiding and slinking about. He’s as tired of it as I am.”
“You’ve done it before,” said O’Brien. Back and forth, pacing.
“But I was younger. Walking like a young man comes hard for me.” He tipped his craggy brows down. “Well, is he in love with her?”
O’Brien stopped. “Of course he is. The hypno-examination only confirmed what I already knew. He’s in love with her, but he can’t admit it to himself because he’s consumed by his drive for revenge. There’s a mother image underneath which fits Grace too closely. We should have thought of that.”
“He’s still useful to us,” said London. “The organization he has accomplished is phenomenal.”
“He’s useful as long as he’s dominated by hate,” said O’Brien. “This is no time for love. If we recognized how he feels about Grace we’d have to get rid of him. He’d turn soft, cautious.” O’Brien turned his back on London. “Do you think she’s really pregnant?”
He could not see London shrug, but he sensed it.
“If she’s not, why would Movius say such a thing?” asked O’Brien.
London stared at O’Brien’s back. “To see your reaction.”
O’Brien whirled. “That man is dangerous!”
“I see he got a reaction,” said London.
“Of course he got a reaction!”
“I’m more certain than ever that it’s not true.”
“Why?”
“We’ve made a dangerous error. We’ve underestimated our man. He was feeling for a reaction, hoping to panic us into an ill-considered move.”
“Such as?”
“My call to Grace immediately after you called me.”
O’Brien sank into his chair. “If Grace told me what you wanted, he has put two and two together.”
“One and one together,” said London. “Us.”
“Tell Navvy to get rid of him.”
London shook his head. “No! He’s still useful. If we can coalesce the uprising behind Movius we can still control it until we’re ready to dispose of him.”
“And what about Grace?”
London’s shoulders sagged. “That’s the chance we took.” His voice sank almost to a whisper. “Anyone is expendable.” The hunter’s eyes looked up at the chart of civilizations. “That’s what counts, preserving the knowledge of that for the next civilization, showing the new ones how to ride over a crisis.”
“We may have to lure Grace away from him when the time comes,” said O’Brien.
London unbent, rising out of his chair like some tall insect. “I will take care of that. I still know how to handle Grace.”
CR-14 was on the fifty-ninth floor of the Bu-Trans Building. The office looked out over the high-walled rear parking are where the big vans were kept, row on row of them far down below, angled precisely between white lines. By eleven o’clock most of the vans would be out working. It was early yet, though, and few had been dispatched. Movius stood at the window, looking down, waiting for Rafe Newton to appear. The cold-eyed receptionist had said Newton would be in shortly. It was a good thing. Another day of this waiting and he’d have discarded caution, started some action. But that was what they wanted him to do, obviously.
Three days they’d kept him waiting.
“Mr. Newton is out of town,” the receptionist had said the first day, and the next day, and the next.
And Gerard: “Be patient. They’re worried. They want time to see if you’re going to make the first move. They’ll be tracing back on you, too.”
Three blasted days of cooling his heels. Grace was feeling the tension of it as badly as he was. And Old Quilliam calling her every day like that, demanding to see her. Nothing to do but sit in the apartment and read, worry about him.
Movius glanced at his watch, turned around. It was a large room—CR-14—perhaps forty feet wide and sixty long. The left wall was taken up by doorless offices separated by low, frosted glass partitions. Along the opposite wall was a row of maps on movable stands. One map had been pulled into the room. It was dotted with colored pins. Almost precisely in the center of the room was a long dark wood table, chairs around it at odd angles as though a conference had just ended. They’d been that way for three days now while people wandered in and out of the room, not speaking, not appearing to notice Movius.
Three men and a woman entered. The woman was the only familiar one, a large, squarish figure with face to match. She reminded Movius of someone. He’d been trying to remember who and had meant to ask Gerard who she was. The men were all of a type—muscular with looks so average they would be difficult to separate or remember. They had dangerous eyes which searched but seemed never to find. The woman and one man went into one of the c
ubbyhole offices. The other two men pulled out a map and stood looking at it, talking in low voices. They ignored Movius.
A medium height, red-haired man walked into the room. He had a wolfish, narrow-jawed look, evasive eyes which flitted across Movius without seeming to notice him.
Red hair, thought Movius. That will be Newton. He examined the man as Newton went to the two men by the map. So this was the man who had ordered Gerard’s first investigator thrown down a light well. Movius touched the gun at his lapel.
The red-haired man turned away from the map, came up to Movius. “Are you Movius?” A colorless voice. The narrow-set eyes stared at Movius’ lapel.
You shifty-eyed low-opp, thought Movius. You know who I am. He said, “That’s right.”
“I’m Newton.” The eyes came up, flicked over Movius’ face, back to the lapel. “I run this department. I’ll explain your duties later.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward a cubbyhole near the end. “Your office is number five. Somebody should’ve told you.”
Movius felt tension rising in the room.
Newton took his arm. “Here, I’ll show you the place and where things are.” He steered Movius across the room.
Yes, there was tension in the room. The two at the map had stopped talking. Movius glanced back. They had turned and were watching his progress toward the little office, Movius felt every sense in his body come was a trap! They had decided to get rid of him quickly. A compartment. What kind of a trap?
“In here.” Newton was urging him to go ahead.
Movius pulled back, brushed his hand over the bulge of the gun in his lapel holster. “You first, Mr. Newton.”
Tension in the room was electric. Movius flashed his left hand down to Newton’s elbow and, using upward leverage, thrust the red-haired man into the office. Newton’s scream was cut off by a stuttering sound, the shattering of glass. Movius slapped his lapel and the tiny gun dropped into his hand. He waved the muzzle across the two by the map and the man and woman who had come out of the end office. The four were in various stages of thrusting hands into pockets.
“Bring your hands out empty,” said Movius.
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