They were asking questions among the workers about production rates. So far it had not shaken the basic story, that station had simply absorbed what they produced. There were all those ships up there, all those merchanters 294
Downbelow Station
orbiting station. It was not likely that even Mazian would start singling out merchanters and taking supply from them ... not when they were that numerous.
But Mazian, the thought kept nagging at him, had not outmaneuvered Union this long to be taken in by Emilio Konstantin. Not likely.
He walked the path down over the bridge in the gully, up again, toward operations. He saw its door open, saw Miliko come outside, stand waiting for him, her black hair blowing, her arms clenched against the day's chill.
She had wanted to come to the ship with him, fearing his going alone into Porey's hands, without witnesses. He had argued her out of it. She started toward him now, coming down the hill, and he waved, to let her know it was at least as all right as it was likely to be.
They were still in command of Downbelow.
295
Downbelow Station
9
Blue one: 10/5/52; 0900
A trooper was on guard at the corner. Jon Lukas hesitated, but that was guaranteed to attract attention. The trooper made a move of his hand to the vicinity of the pistol. Jon came ahead nervously, card in hand, offered it, and the trooper— heavyset, dark-skinned— took it and frowned while looking at it. "That's a council clearance," Jon said. "Top council clearance."
"Yes, sir," the trooper said. Jon took the card back, started down the crosshall, with the feeling that the trooper was still watching his back.
"Sir."
He turned.
"Mr. Konstantin's at his office, sir."
"His wife's my sister."
There was a moment of silence. "Yes, sir," the trooper said mildly, and made himself a statue again. Jon turned and walked on.
Angelo did well for himself, he thought bitterly, no crowding here, no giving up of his living space. The whole end of crosshall four was Angelo's.
And Alicia's.
He stopped at the door, hesitated, his stomach tightening. He had gotten this far. There was a trooper back there who would ask questions, make an issue of unusual behavior. There was no going back. He pressed com.
Waited.
"Who?" a reedy voice asked, startling him. "Who you?"
296
Downbelow Station
"Lukas," he said. "Jon Lukas."
The door opened. A thin, grayed Downer frowned up at him from eyes surrounded with wrinkles. "I Lily," she said.
He brushed past her, stepped in and looked about the dim living room, the costly furniture, the luxury, the space of it. The Downer Lily hovered there, anxious, let the door close. He turned, his eyes drawn to light, saw a room beyond, a white floor, with the illusion of windows open on space.
"You come see she?" Lily asked.
"Tell her I'm here."
"I tell." The old Downer bowed, walked away with a stooped, brittle step.
The place was quiet, deathly hushed. He waited in the dark living room, found nothing to do with his hands, his stomach more and more upset.
There were voices from the room. "Jon," he heard in the midst of it.
Alicia's voice. At least it was the human one. He shivered, feeling physically ill. He had never come to these rooms. Never. Had seen Alicia by remote, tiny, withered, a shell the machines sustained. He came now.
He did not know why he came— and did know. To find out what was truth— to know— if he could face dealing with Alicia; if it was life worth living. All these years— the pictures, the transmitted, cold pictures he could somehow deal with, but to be there in the same room, to look into her face and have to talk with her....
Lily came back, hands folded, bowed. "You come. You come now."
He moved. Got as far as halfway to the white-tiled room, the sterile, hushed room, and his stomach knotted.
Suddenly he turned and started for the outside door. "You come?" The Downer's puzzled voice pursued him. "You come, sir?"
He touched the switch and left, let the door close behind him, drew a breath of the cooler, freer air of the hall outside.
297
Downbelow Station
He walked away from it, the place, the Konstantins.
"Mr. Lukas," the trooper on guard said as he reached the corner, his eyes asking curious questions through the courtesy.
"She was asleep," he said, swallowed, kept walking, trying with every step to put that apartment and that white room out of his mind. He remembered a child, a girl, someone else. He kept it that way.
298
Downbelow Station
10
i
Pell: sector blue one; council chambers;
10/6/52; 1400 hrs.
Council was breaking up early, having passed what measures were set before it to pass, with Keu of India sitting in grim witness of what they said and what they did, his stone-still countenance casting a pall on debate.
On this third day of the crisis, Mazian made his demands, and obtained.
Kressich gathered up his notes and came down from the uppermost tier into the sunken center of the chambers, by the seats about the table, delayed there, resisting the outflow of traffic, looking anxiously toward Angelo Konstantin, who conferred with Nguyen and Landgraf and some of the other representatives. Keu still sat at the table, listening, his bronze face like a mask. He feared Keu ... feared to raise his business in front of him.
But he went nevertheless, edged insistently as close as he could get to the head of it, into that private company about Konstantin where he knew he was not wanted, Q's representative, reminder of problems no one had time to solve. He waited, while Konstantin finished his discussion with the others, stared at Konstantin intently so that Konstantin should be aware that his particular attention was wanted.
At last Konstantin took note of him, stayed a moment from his evident intention to leave in Keu's company, for Keu had risen. "Sir," Kressich said. "Mr. Konstantin." He drew from his folder of papers one which he had prepared, proferred it to Konstantin's hand. "I have limited facilities, Mr. Konstantin. Comp and print isn't accessible to me where I live. You know that. The situation there...." He moistened his lips, conscious of Konstantin's frown. "My office was nearly mobbed last night. Please, sir.
Can we assure my constituents ... that the Downbelow appointments will continue?"
299
Downbelow Station
"That's under negotiation, Mr. Kressich. The station is making every effort to get procedures back to normal; but programs are being reviewed; policy and directions are being reviewed."
"It's the only hope." He avoided Keu's stare, kept his eyes fixed on Konstantin. "Without that ... we've got no hope. Our people will go to Downbelow. To the Fleet. To any place that will take them. Only the applications have to be accepted. They have to see there's hope of getting out. Please, sir."
"The nature of this?" Konstantin asked, lifting the paper to view.
"A bill I haven't the facilities to reproduce for the council to consider. I hoped your staff ..."
"Regarding the applications."
"Regarding that, sir."
"The program remains," Keu interrupted coldly, "under discussion."
"We'll try," Konstantin said, placing the paper among the others he held. "I can't bring this up on the floor, Mr. Kressich. You understand that. Not until the basic issues in question are resolved at other levels. I'll have to hold it, and I earnestly beg that you don't bring up the question tomorrow, although of course you can do that. Public debate might upset negotiations. You're a man experienced in government; you understand me. But in courtesy, if we can bring this up at some future meeting ... I'll of course have my staff prepare this or other bills for distribution. You understand my position, sir."
"Yes, sir," he said, sick at heart. "Thank you."
&nb
sp; He turned away. He had hoped, dimly. He had hoped also for a chance to appeal for station help, security, protection. He did not want Keu's sort of protection. Dared not ask. They had seen the Fleet's mercy, in the persons of Mallory and Sung and Kreshov. The troops would come in; take 300
Downbelow Station
Coledy's organization apart as a beginning; his security; all the protection he had.
He walked out into the council chambers foyer, past the mocking, amazed stares of Downbelow statues, out the glass doors into the hall, and, unmolested by the guards, walked toward the lift which would take him down to the blue niner level, to go home, back to Q.
There was something like normal traffic in the corridors of main station now, thinner than usual, but station residents were back about their jobs and moving freely if cautiously; no one tended to linger anywhere.
Someone jostled him in meeting. A hand met his, pressed a card into it. He stopped, with a confused impression of a man, a face he had not bothered to see. In terror he resisted the impulse to look about. He pretended to adjust the papers in his folder, walked on, and farther down the hall examined the card: an access card, a bit of tape on its surface: green nine 0434. An address. He kept walking, dropped the hand with the card to his side, his heart hammering against his ribs.
He could ignore it, pass on back into Q. Could turn the card in, claim to have found it, or tell the truth: that someone wanted to contact him without others' knowledge. Politics. It had to be. Someone willing to take a risk wanted something from the representative of Q. A trap— or hope, a trade of influence. Someone who might be able to move obstructions.
He could reach green nine; just an accidental wrong button on the lift. He stopped in front of the lift call plate, alone, coded green and stood in front of the panel so no one passing might notice the glowing green. The car came; the doors opened. He stepped in and a woman came darting in at the last moment, punched the inside plate to code green two. Doors shut; he looked furtively at her as the car began to move, averted his eyes quickly.
The car made a one-section traverse and started down. She got off at two; he stayed on, while the car picked up passengers, none that knew him. It stopped at six, at seven, acquired more. At eight, two got out; nine: he exited with four others, walked toward the docks, his fingers sweating on the card. He passed occasional troopers, who kept a general watch on the flow of traffic in the halls. None of them was likely to notice an ordinary man walking down a hall, stopping at a door, using a card to enter. It was 301
Downbelow Station
the most natural of actions. Crossway four was coming up. There was no guard there. He slowed, thinking desperately, his heart speeding; he began to think of walking on.
A walker just behind him hooked his sleeve and brusquely swept him forward. "Come on," the man said, and turned the corner with him. He made no resistance, fearing knives, instincts bred in Q. Of course the deliverer of the card had come down too ... or had some confederate. He moved puppetlike, walked the crosshall to the door. Let free, the walker passing on, he used the card.
He walked in. It was a small apartment, with an unmade bed, discarded clothes lying all over it. A man walked out of the nook which served as kitchen, a nondescript man in his middle thirties. "Who are you?" the man asked him.
It set him off balance. He started to pocket the card, but the man held out his hand demanding it. He surrendered it.
"Name?" the man asked.
"Kressich." And desperately: "I'm due ... they'll miss me any minute."
"Then I won't keep you too long. You're from Russell's Star, Mr. Kressich, yes?"
"I thought you didn't know me."
"A wife, Jen Justin; a son, Romy."
He felt beside him for a littered chair, leaned on it, his heart paining him.
"What are you talking about?"
"Am I correct, Vassily Kressich?"
He nodded.
302
Downbelow Station
"The trust your fellow citizens of Q have placed in you ... to represent their interests. You are, of course, one whose initiative they respect ...
regarding their interests."
"Make your point."
"Your constituency is in a bad position ... papers entangled. And when the military security gets tighter, as it will, with Mazian's force in control— I do wonder, Mr. Kressich, what kind of measures could be set up. You've all opposed Union after one fashion and the other, of course, some out of genuine dislike; some out of self-interest; some out of convenience. You, now, what sort were you?"
"Where do you get your information?"
"Official sources. I know a great deal about you that you never told this comp. I've done research. To put it finely, I've seen your wife and son, Mr.
Kressich. Are you interested?"
He nodded, unable to do more than nod. He leaned on the chair, trying to breathe.
"They're well. On a station the name of which I know ... where I saw them. Or perhaps moved by now. Union has realized their possible value, knowing the name of the man who represents so formidable a number of people on Pell. Computer search turned them up, but they'll not be lost again. Would you like to see them again, Mr. Kressich?"
"What do you want from me?"
"A little of your time. A little preparation for the future. You can protect yourself, your family, your constituents, who are pariahs under Mazian.
What help could you get from Mazian in locating your family? Or how could he get you to them? And surely there are other families divided, who may now repent a rash decision, a decision Mazian forced them to take, who may understand ... that the real interest of any Beyonder is the Beyond itself."
303
Downbelow Station
"You're Union," Kressich said, to have it beyond doubt.
"Mr. Kressich, I'm Beyonder. Aren't you?"
He sat down on the arm of the chair, for his knees were unsteady. "What is it you want?"
"Surely there's a power structure in Q, something you would know. Surely a man like you ... is in contact with it."
"I have contacts."
"And influence?"
"And influence."
"You'll be in Union hands sooner or later; you realize that ... if Mazian doesn't take measures of his own. Do you realize what he might do if he decides he wants to stay here? You think he's going to have Q near his ships? No, Mr. Kressich, you're on the one hand cheap labor; on the other a nuisance. Depending on the situation. The way things are going to go—very soon— you're going to be a liability to him. What means can I use to contact you, Mr. Kressich?"
"You contacted me today."
"Where is your office?"
"Orange nine 1001."
"Is there com?"
"Station. Just station can call through to me. And it breaks down. Anytime I want to call, I have to clear it through com central; it's set up that way.
You can't— can't call through. And it's always broken."
"Q is prone to riot, is it not?"
304
Downbelow Station
He nodded.
"Could the councillor of Q ... arrange one?"
A second time he nodded. Sweat was running down his face, his sides.
"Can you get me off Pell?"
"When you've done what you can for me, a guaranteed ticket off, Mr.
Kressich. Gather your forces. I don't even ask to know who they are. But you'll know me. A message from me will use the word Vassily. That's all.
Just that word. And if such a call should come, you see that there is—immediate and widespread disturbance. And for that, you may begin to look forward to that reunion."
"Who are you?"
"Go on now. You've lost no more than ten minutes of your time. You can make up most of it. I'd hurry, Mr. Kressich."
He rose, glanced back, left in haste, the corridor air cold on his face. No one challenged him, no one noticed. He matched the pace of the main corridor, and decided
that if challenged about the time, he had talked to Konstantin, talked to people in the foyer; that he had gotten ill and stopped in a restroom. Konstantin himself would attest that he had left upset. He wiped his face with his hand, his vision tending to blur, rounded the corner onto green dock, and kept walking, into blue, and toward the line.
* * *
There was a knock at the door. Hale answered it, and Jon turned tensely from his place by the kitchen bar, let go a profound sigh of relief as Jessad walked in, and the door closed behind him. "No trouble," Jessad said. "They're covering up the signs, you know.
Preparing for in-station action. Makes finding directions a little difficult."
"Kressich, confound you."
305
Downbelow Station
"No trouble." Jessad stripped off his coat and tossed it to Hale's man Keifer, who had appeared from the bedroom. Keifer felt the jacket pocket at once, recovered his papers with understandable relief. "You didn't get stopped," Keifer said.
"No," Jessad said. "Just walked right to your apartment, went in, sent your partner out with the card ... all very smooth."
"He agreed?" Jon asked.
"Of course he agreed." Jessad was in an unusual mood, feeling a residue of excitement, his normally dull eyes alive with humor. He walked over to the bar and poured himself a drink.
"My clothes," Keifer objected.
Jessad laughed, sipped at the drink, then set it down and began to take off the shirt. "He's back in Q by now. And we control it."
ii
Union carrier, Unity, amid the Union Fleet:
Downbelow Station Page 31
