“Blue Bolt policies give you complete protection against all hazards from this explosion. I repeat, Blue Bolt policies give you complete protection against all hazards from this explosion. Check your policies and be sure of your status. There is absolutely no risk for any person carrying the basic Blue Bolt minimum coverage or better.”
I clicked off the set. “I wonder what the people in Shanghai are hearing tonight,” I said.
Zorchi had only listened without comment, when I told him about the bomb that afternoon; he listened without comment now.
Rena said: “Tom, I’ve been wondering. You know, I—I don’t have any insurance. Neither has my father, since we were canceled. And we’re not the only ones without it, either.”
I patted her hand. “We’ll straighten this out,” I promised. “You’ll get your coverage back.”
She gave me a skeptical look, but shook her head. “I don’t mean just about father and me. What about all of the uninsurables, all over the world? The bomb goes off, and everybody with a policy files down into the vaults, but what about the others?”
I explained, “There are provisions for them. Some of them can be cared for under the dependency clauses in the policies of their next of kin. Others have various charitable arrangements—some localities, for instance, carry blanket floater policies for their paupers and prisoners and so on. And—well, I don’t suppose it would ever come to that, but if someone turned up who had no coverage at all, he could be cared for out of the loss-pool that the Company carries for such contingencies. It wouldn’t be luxurious, but he’d live. You see,” I went on, warming to my subject, “the Company is set up so the actual premiums paid are meaningless. The whole objective of the Company is service; the premiums are only a way to that goal. The Company has no interest other than the good of the world, and—”
I stopped, feeling like a fool. Zorchi was laughing raucously.
I said resentfully, “I guess I asked for that, Zorchi. Well, perhaps what I said sounds funny. But, before God, Zorchi, that’s the way the Company is set up. Here—” I picked the Handbook from the end table beside me and tossed it to him—“read what Millen Carmody says. I won’t try to convince you. Just read it.”
He caught it expertly and dropped it on the floor before him. “So much for your Chief Assassin,” he remarked pleasantly. “The words are no doubt honied, Weels, but I am not at this moment interested to read them.”
I shrugged. It was peculiar how even a reasonable man—I have always thought of myself as a reasonable man—could make a fool of himself. It was no sin that habit had betrayed me into exalting the Company; but it was, at the least, quite silly of me to take offense when my audience disagreed with me.
I said, in what must have been a surly tone, “I don’t suppose you are—why should you? You hate the Company from the word go.”
He shook his head mildly. “I? No, Weels. Believe me, I am the Company’s most devoted friend. Without it, how would I feed my five-times-a-day appetite?”
I sneered at him. “If you’re a friend to the Company, then my best buddy is a tapeworm.”
“Meaning that Zorchi is a parasite?” His eyes were furious. “Weels, you impose on me too far! Be careful! Is it the act of a tapeworm that I bleed and die, over and over? Is it something I chose, did I pray to the saints, before my mother spawned me, that I should be born a monster? No, Weels! We are alike, you gentlemen of the Company and I—we live on blood money, it is true. But the blood I live on, man—it is my own!”
I said mollifyingly, “Zorchi, I’ve had a hard day. I didn’t mean to be nasty. I apologize.”
“Hah!”
“No, really.”
He shrugged, abruptly quiet. “It is of no importance,” he said. “If I wished to bear you a grudge, Weels, I would have more than that to give me cause.” He sighed. “It all looked quite simple twenty-four hours ago, Weels. True, I had worked my little profession in this area as far as it might go—with your help, of course. But the world was before me—I had arranged to fly next week to the Parisian Anarch, to change my name and, perhaps within a month, with a new policy, suffer a severe accident that would provide me with francs for my hobbies. Why is it that you bring bad news always?”
I said, “Wasn’t I of some little assistance to you at one time?”
“In helping me from the deepfreeze? Oh, yes, perhaps. But didn’t you help me into it in the first place, as well? And surely you have already had sufficient credit for aiding my escape—I observe the young lady looking at you with the eyes of one who sees a hero.”
I said in irritation, “You’re infuriating, Zorchi. I suppose you know that. I never claimed any credit for helping you out of the clinic. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I ever mentioned it. Everyone assumed that I had just happened to bring you along—no one questioned it.”
He flared, “You let them assume, Weels? You let them assume that Zorchi was as helpless a side of pork as those other dead ones—you let them guess that you stuck me with a needle, so that it would seem how brave you were? Is it not true that I had revived by myself, Weels?”
I felt myself growing angry. “Of course! But I just didn’t see any reason to—”
“To divide the credit, is that it, Weels? No, say no more; I have closed the subject. However, I point out that there is a difference between the rescue of a helpless hulk and the mere casual assistance one may be invited to give to a Zorchi.”
I let it go at that. There was no point in arguing with that man, ever.
So I left the room—ostensibly to look in on Benedetto, actually to cool off a little. Benedetto seemed fine—that is, the dressings were still in place, he had not moved, his breath and pulse were slow and regular. I took my time before I went back to the room where Zorchi still sat waiting.
He had taken advantage of the time to improve his mind. The man’s curiosity was insatiable; the more he denied it, the more it stuck out all over him. He had thrown the Handbook on the floor when I gave it to him, but as soon as I was out of sight he was leafing through it. He had it open on his lap, face down, as he faced me.
“Weels.” There was, for once, no sardonic rasp to his voice. And his face, I saw, was bone-white. “Weels, permit me to be sure I understand you. It is your belief that this intelligent plan of seeding the world with poison to make it well will succeed, because you believe that a Signore Carmody will evict Defoe from power?”
I said, “Well, not exactly—”
“But almost exactly? That is, you require this Millen Carmody for your plan?”
“It wasn’t my plan. But you’re right about the other.”
“Very good.” He extended the Handbook to me. “There is here a picture which calls itself Millen Carmody. Is that the man?”
I glanced at the familiar warm eyes on the frontispiece. “That’s right. Have you seen him?”
“I have, indeed.” The shaggy beard was twitching—I did not know whether with laughter or the coming of tears. “I saw him not long ago, Weels. It was in what they call Bay 100—you remember? He was in a little bag like the pasta one carries home from a store. He was quite sound asleep, Weels, in the shelf just below the one I woke up in.”
CHAPTER XVI
So now at last I knew why Millen Carmody had permitted Defoe to turn the Company into a prison cell for the world. He couldn’t forbid it, because the dead can forbid nothing, and Carmody was sleeping with the dead. No wonder Defoe was so concerned with the Naples sector!
How long? How long had Carmody been quietly out of the way, while Defoe made his plans and took his steps, and someone in a little room somewhere confected “statements” with Millen Carmody’s signature on them and “interviews” that involved only one man?
It could not have been less than five or six years, I thought, counting back to the time when Defoe’s name first began to register with me as an ordinary citizen, before I had married his cousin. Six years. That was the date of the Prague-Vienna war. And the yea
r following, Hanoi clashed with Cebu. And the year after that, Auckland and Adelaide.
What in God’s name was Defoe’s plan? Nothing as simple as putting Carmody out of the way so that he could loot the Company. No man could wish to be that rich! It was meaningless…
Defoe could be playing for only one thing—power.
But it didn’t matter; all that mattered was that now I knew that Carmody was an enemy to Defoe. He was therefore an ally to Rena and to me, and we needed allies. But how might we get Carmody out of Bay 100?
There weren’t any good answers, though Rena and I, with the help of grumbling comments from Zorchi, debated it until the morning light began to shine. Frontal assault on the clinic was ridiculous. Even a diversionary raid such as Rena had staged to try to rescue her father—only ten days before!—would hardly get us in through the triple-locked door of Bay 100. Even if Slovetski’s movement had still been able to muster the strength to do it, which was not likely.
It was maddening. I had hidden the hypodermic Rena had brought in Bay 100 to get it out of the way. Undoubtedly it was there still—perhaps only a few yards from Millen Carmody. If fifty cubic centimeters of a watery purplish liquid could have been plucked from the little glass bottle and moved the mere inches to the veins of his arms, the problem would be solved—for he could open the door from inside as easily as Zorchi had, and certainly once he was that far we could manage to get him out.
But the thing was impossible, no matter how we looked at it.
* * * *
I suppose I fell asleep sitting in that chair, because I woke up in it. It was in the middle of a crazy nightmare about an avenging angel with cobalt-blue eyes burning at me out of heaven; and I wanted to run from him, but I was frozen by a little man with a hypodermic of ice. I woke up, and I was facing the television set. Someone—Rena, I suppose—had covered me with a light spread. The set was blaring a strident tenor voice. Zorchi was hunched over, watching some opera; I might as well have been a thousand miles away.
I lay blearily watching the tiny figures flickering around the screen, not so much forgetting all the things that were on my mind as knowing what they were and that they existed, but lacking the strength to pick them up and look at them. The opera seemed to concern an Egyptian queen and a priest of some sort; I was not very interested in it, though it seemed odd that Zorchi should watch it so eagerly.
Perhaps, after all, there was something to his maudlin self-pity—perhaps I really did think of him as a monster or a dog, for I was as uneasy to see him watching an opera as I would have been to see an ape play the flute.
I heard trucks going by on the highway. By and by it began to penetrate through the haze that I was hearing a lot of trucks going by on the highway. I had no idea how heavily traveled the Naples-Caserta road might be, but from the sound, they seemed nearly bumper to bumper, whizzing along at seventy or eighty miles an hour.
I got up stiffly and walked over to the window.
I had not been far wrong. There was a steady stream of traffic in both directions—not only trucks but buses and private cars, everything from late-model gyromaxions to ancient piston-driven farm trucks.
Zorchi heard me move, and turned toward me with a hooded expression. I pointed to the window.
“What’s up?” I asked.
He said levelly, “The end of the world. It is now official; it has been on the television. Oh, they do not say it in just so many words, but it is there.”
I turned to the television set and flicked off the tape-relay switch—apparently the opera had been recorded. Zorchi glared, but didn’t try to stop me as I hunted on the broadcast bands for a news announcer.
I didn’t have far to hunt. Every channel was the same: The Company was issuing orders and instructions. Every man, woman and child was to be ready within ten days for commitment to the clinic…
I tried to imagine the scenes of panic and turmoil that would be going on in downtown Naples at that moment.
* * * *
The newscaster was saying: “Remember, if your Basic Blue Bolt policy number begins with the letters A, B or C—if it begins with the letters A, B or C—you are to report to the local first aid or emergency post at six hundred hours tomorrow. There is no danger. I repeat, there is no danger. This is merely a precaution taken by the Company for your protection.” He didn’t really look as though there were no danger, however. He looked like a man confronted by a ghost.
I switched to another channel. An equally harried-looking announcer: “—reported by a team of four physicists from the Royal University to have produced a serious concentration of radioactive byproducts in the upper atmosphere. It is hoped that the cloud of dangerous gases will veer southward and pass harmlessly through the Eastern Mediterranean; however, strictly as a precautionary measure, it is essential that every person in this area be placed in a safety zone during the danger period, the peak of which is estimated to come within the next fourteen days. If there is any damage, it will be only local and confined to livestock—for which you will be reimbursed under your Blue Bolt coverage.”
I switched to another channel. Local damage! Local to the face of the Earth!
I tried all the channels; they were all the same.
The Company had evidently decided to lie to the human race. Keep them in the dark—make each little section believe that only it was affected—persuade them that they would be under for, at most, a few weeks or months.
Was that, I wondered, Defoe’s scheme? Was he planning to try somehow to convince four billion people that fifty years were only a few weeks? It would never work—the first astronomer to look at a star, the first seaman to discover impossible errors in his tide table, would spot the lie.
More likely he was simply proceeding along what must always have been his basic assumption: The truth is wasted on the people.
Zorchi said with heavy irony, “If my guest is quite finished with the instrument, perhaps he will be gracious enough to permit me to resume Aïda.”
* * * *
I woke Rena and told her about the evacuation. She said, yawning, “But of course, Tom. What else could they do?” And she began discussing breakfast.
I went with her, but not to eat; in the dining hall was a small television set, and on it I could listen to the same repeat broadcasts over and over to my heart’s content. It was—in a way—a thrilling sight. It is always impressive to see a giant machine in operation, and there was no machine bigger than the Company.
The idea of suspending a whole world, even piecemeal, was staggering. But if there had been panic at first in the offices of the Company, none of it showed. The announcers were harried and there was bustle and strain, but order presided.
Those long lines of vehicles outside the window; they were going somewhere; they were each one, I could see by the medallion slung across each radiator front, on the payroll of the Company.
Perhaps the trick of pretending to each section that only it would be affected was wise—I don’t know. It was working, and I suppose that is the touchstone of wisdom. Naples knew that something was going on in Rome, of course, but was doubtful about the Milanese Republic. The Romans were in no doubt at all about Milan, but weren’t sure about the Duchy of Monaco, down the Riviera shore. And the man on the street, if he gave it a thought at all, must have been sure that such faraway places as America and China were escaping entirely.
I suppose it was clever—there was no apparent panic. The trick took away the psychological horror of world catastrophe and replaced it with only a local terror, no different in kind than an earthquake or a flood. And there was always the sack of gold at the end of every catastrophe: Blue Bolt would pay for damage, with a free and uncounting hand.
Except that this time, of course, Blue Bolt would not, could not, pay at all.
* * * *
By noon, Benedetto was out of bed.
He shouldn’t have been, but he was conscious and we could not make him stay put—short of chains.
We got the old man to lie down, and left him. But not for long. Within the hour he came tottering to where we were sitting, staring at the television. He waved aside Rena’s quick protest.
“There is no time for rest, my daughter,” he said. “Do not scold me. I have a task.”
Rena said worriedly, “Dear, you must stay in bed. The doctor said—”
“The doctor,” Benedetto said formally, “is a fool. Shall I allow us to die here? Am I an ancient idiot, or am I Benedetto dell’Angela who with Slovetski led twenty thousand men?”
Rena said, “Please! You’re sick!”
“Enough.” Benedetto wavered, but stood erect. “I have telephoned. I have learned a great deal. The movement—” he leaned against the wall for support—“was not planned by fools. We knew there might be bad days; we do not collapse because a few of us are put out of service by the Company. I have certain emergency numbers to call; I call them. And I find—” he paused dramatically—“that there is news. Slovetski has escaped!”
I said, “That’s impossible! Defoe wouldn’t let him go!”
“Perhaps Slovetski did not consult him,” Benedetto said with dignity. “At any rate, he is free and not far from here. And he is the answer we have sought, you understand.”
“How?” I demanded. “What can he do that we can’t?”
Benedetto smiled indulgently, though the smile was strained. His wound must have been giving him hell; it had had just enough time to stiffen up. He said, “Leave that to Slovetski, Thomas. It is his métier, not yours. I shall go to him now.”
Preferred Risk Page 15
