When the first man pointed at Jill and the two men flanking him hurried toward her with their guns of great wrongness. Smith reached out through his Doppelganger and gave them each that tiny twist which causes to topple away.
The first man stared at where they had been and reached for his gun - and he was gone, too.
The other four started to close in. Smith did not want to twist them. He felt that Jubal would be more pleased with him if he simply stopped them. But stopping a thing, even an ash tray, is work-and Smith did not have his body at hand. An Old One could have managed it, all four together, but Smith did what he could do, what he had to do.
Four feather touches-they were gone.
He felt more intense wrongness from the direction of the car on the ground and went at once to it-grokked to a quick decision, and car and pilot were gone.
He almost overlooked the car riding cover patrol in the air. Smith started to relax when he had disposed of the car on the ground-when suddenly he felt wrongness and trouble increase, and he looked up.
The second car was coming in for a landing right where he was.
Smith stretched his time sense to his personal limit and went to the car in the air, inspected it carefully, grokked that it was as choked with utter wrongness as the first had been� tilted it into neverness. Then he returned to the group by the pool.
All his friends seemed quite excited; Dorcas was sobbing and Jill was holding her and soothing her. Anne alone seemed untouched by the emotions Smith felt seething around him. But wrongness was gone, all of it, and with it the trouble that had disturbed his meditations earlier. Dorcas, he knew, would be healed faster and better by Jill than by anyone-Jill always grokked a hurting fully and at once. Disturbed by emotions around him, slightly apprehensive that he might not have acted in all ways rightly at the point of cusp-or that Jubal might to grok him-Smith decided that he was now free to leave. He slipped back into the pool, found his body, grokked that it was still as he had left it, unharmed-slipped it back on.
He considered contemplating the events at the cusp, But they were too new, too recent; he was not ready to enfold them, not ready to praise and cherish the men he had been forced to move. Instead he returned happily to the task he had been on. "Sherbet" Sherbetlee" "Sherbetzide"- He had reached "Tinwork" and was about to consider "Tiny" when he felt Jill's touch approaching him. He unswallowed his tongue and made himself ready, knowing that his brother Jill could not remain very long under water without distress.
As she touched him, he reached out, took her face in his hands and kissed her. It was a thing he had learned to do quite lately and he did not feel that he grokked it perfectly. It had the growing-closer of the water ceremony. But it had something else, too� something he wanted very much to grok in perfect fullness.
XVI
JUBAL HARSHAW DID NOT WAIT for Gillian to dig her problem child out of the pool; he left instructions for Dorcas to be given a sedative and hurried to his study, leaving Anne to explain (or not explain) the events of the last ten minutes. "Front!" he called out over his shoulder.
Miriam turned and caught up with him. "I guess I must be 'front,'" she said breathlessly. "But, Boss, what in the-"
"Girl, not one word."
"But, Boss-"
"Zip it, I said. Miriam, about a week from now we'll all sit down and get Anne to tell us what we really did see. But right now everybody and his cousins will be phoning here and reporters will be crawling out of the trees-and I've got to make a couple of calls first. I need help. Are you the sort of useless female who comes unstuck when she's needed? That reminds me- Make a note to dock Dorcas's pay for the time she spent having hysterics."
Miriam gasped. "Boss! You just dare do that and every single one of us will quit cold!"
"Nonsense."
"I mean it. Quit picking on Dorcas. Why, I would have had hysterics myself if she hadn't beaten me to it." She added, "I think I'll have hysterics now."
Harshaw grinned. "You do and I'll spank you. All right, put Dorcas down for a bonus for 'extra hazardous duty.' Put all of you down for a bonus. Me, especially. I earned it."
"All right. But who pays your bonus?"
"The taxpayers, of course. We'll find a way to clip- Damn!" They had reached his study door; the telephone was already demanding attention. He slid into the seat in front of it and keyed in. "Harshaw speaking. Who the devil are you?"
"Skip the routine, Doc," a face answered cheerfully. "You haven't frightened me in years. How's everything going?"
Harshaw recognized the face as belonging to Thomas Mackenzie, production manager-in-chief for New World Networks; he mellowed slightly. "Well enough, Tom. But I'm rushed as can be, so-"
"You're rushed? Come try my forty-eight hour day. I'll make it brief. Do you still think you are going to have something for us? I don't mind the expensive equipment you've got tied up; I can overhead that. But business is business - and I have to pay three full crews just to stand by for your signal. Union rules - you know how it is. I want to do you any favor I can. We've used lots of your script in the past and we expect to use still more in the future - but I'm beginning to wonder what I'm going to tell our comptroller."
Harshaw stared at him. "Don't you think the spot coverage you just got was enough to pay the freight?"
"What spot coverage?"
A few minutes later Harshaw said good-by and switched off, having been convinced that New World Networks had seen nothing of recent events at his home. He stalled off Mackenzie's questions about it, because he was dismally certain that a factual recital would simply convince Mackenzie that poor old Harshaw had at last gone to pieces. Nor could Harshaw have blamed him.
Instead they agreed that, if nothing worth picking up happened in the next twenty-four hours, New World could break the linkage and remove their cameras and other equipment.
As the screen cleared Harshaw ordered, "Get Larry. Have him fetch that panic button - Anne probably has it." He then started making another call, followed it with a third. By the time Larry arrived, Harshaw was convinced that no network had been watching when the Special Service squads attempted to raid his home. It was not necessary to check on whether or not the two dozen "hold" messages that he had recorded had been sent; their delivery depended on the same signal that had failed to reach the news channels.
As he turned away from the phone Larry offered him the "panic button" portable radio link. "You wanted this, Boss?"
"I just wanted to sneer at it and see if it sneered back. Larry, let this be a lesson to us: never trust any machinery more complicated than a knife and fork."
"Okay. Anything else?"
"Larry, is there a way to check that dingus and see if it's working properly? Without actually hauling three networks out of their beds, I mean?"
"Sure. The techs set up the transceiver down in the shop and it's got a switch on it for that very purpose. Throw the switch, push the button; a light comes on. To test on through, you simply call 'em, right from the transceiver and tell 'em you want a hot test clear through to the cameras and back to the monitor stations."
"And suppose the test shows that we aren't getting through? If the trouble is here, can you spot what's wrong?"
"Well, I might," Larry said doubtfully, "if it wasn't anything more than a loose connection. But Duke is the electron pusher around here - I'm more the intellectual type."
"I know, son - I'm not too bright about practical matters, either. Well, do the best you can. Let me know."
"Anything else, Jubal?"
"Yes, if you see the man who invented the wheel, send him up; I want to give him a piece of my mind. Meddler!"
Jubal spent the next few minutes in umbilical contemplation. He considered the possibility that Duke had sabotaged the "panic button" but rejected the thought as time wasting, if not unworthy. He allowed himself to wonder for a moment just what had really happened down in his garden and how the lad had done it - from ten feet under water. For he had no doubt that th
e Man from Mars had been behind those impossible shenanigans.
Admittedly, what he had seen only the day before in this very room was just as intellectually stupefying as these later events - but the emotional impact was something else. A mouse was as much a miracle of biology as was an elephant; nevertheless there was an important difference - an elephant was bigger.
To see an empty carton, just rubbish, disappear in midair logically implied the possibility that a squad car full of men could vanish in the same fashion. But one event kicked your teeth in - the other didn't.
Well, he wasn't going to waste tears on those Cossacks. Jubal conceded that cops qua cops were all right; he had met a number of honest cops in his life� and even a fee-splitting village constable did not deserve to be snuffed out like a candle. The Coast Guard was a fine example of what cops ought to be and frequently were.
But to be a member of the S. amp; squads a man had to have larceny in his heart and sadism in his soul. Gestapo. Storm troopers in the service of whatever politico was in power. Jubal longed for the good old days when a lawyer could cite the Bill of Rights and not have some over-riding Federation trickery defeat him.
Never mind- What would logically happen now? Heinrich's task force certainly had had radio contact with its base; ergo, its loss would be noted, if only by silence. Shortly more S.S. troops would come looking for them - were already headed this way if that second car had been chopped off in the middle of an action report. "Miriam-"
"Yes, Boss."
"I want Mike, Jill, and Anne here at once. Then find Larry - in the shop, probably - and both of you come to the house, lock all doors, and all ground floor windows."
"More trouble?"
"Get movin', gal."
If the S.S. apes showed up again - no, when they showed up - they probably would not have duplicate warrants. If their leader was silly enough to break into a locked house without a warrant, well, he might have to turn Mike loose on them. But this blind warfare of attrition had to be stopped - which meant that Jubal simply had to get through to the Secretary General.
How?
Call the Executive Palace again? Heinrich had probably been telling the simple truth when he said that a renewed attempt would simply be referred to Heinrich - or to whatever S.S. boss was now warming that chair that Heinrich would never need again. Well? It would surely surprise them to have a man they had sent a squad to arrest blandly phoning in, face to face - he might be able to bull his way all the way up to the top. Commandant What's-his-name, chap with a face like a well-fed ferret, Twitchell. And certainly the commanding officer of the S.S. buckos would have direct access to the boss.
No good. You had to have a feeling for what makes the frog jump. It would be a waste of breath to tell a man who believes in guns that you've got something better than guns and that he can't arrest you and might as well give up trying. Twitchell would keep on throwing men and guns at them till he ran out of both - but he would never admit he couldn't bring in a man whose location was known.
Well, when you couldn't use the front door you got yourself slipped in through the back door - elementary politics. Jubal regretted mildly that he had ignored politics the last quarter century or so. Damn it, he needed Ben Caxton - Ben would know who had keys to the back door - and Jubal would know somebody who knew one of them.
But Ben's absence was the whole reason for this silly donkey derby. Since he couldn't ask Ben, whom did he know who would know?
Hell's halfwit, he had just been talking to one! Jubal turned back to the phone and tried to raise Tom Mackenzie again, running into only three layers of interference on the way, all of whom knew him and passed him along quickly. While he was doing this, his staff and the Man from Mars came in; Jubal ignored them and they sat down, Miriam first stopping to write on a scratch pad: "Doors and windows locked."
Jubal nodded to her and wrote below it: "Larry - panic button?" then said to the screen, "Tom, sorry to bother you again."
"A pleasure, Jubal."
"Tom, if you wanted to talk to Secretary General Douglas, how would you go about it?"
"Eh? I'd phone his press secretary, Jim Sanforth. Or possibly Jock Dumont, depending on what I wanted. But I wouldn't talk to the Secretary General at all. Jim would handle it."
"But suppose you wanted to talk to Douglas himself."
"Why, I'd tell Jim and let him arrange it. Be quicker just to tell Jim my problem, though; it might be a day or two before he could squeeze me in� and even then I might be bumped for something more urgent. Look, Jubal, the network is useful to the administration - and we know it and they know it. But we don't presume on it unnecessarily."
"Tom� assume that it is necessary. Suppose you just had to speak to Douglas. Right now. Not next week. In the next ten minutes."
Mackenzie's eyebrows went up. "Well - if I just had to, I would explain to Jim why it was so urgent-"
"No."
"Be reasonable."
"No. That's just what I can't be. Assume that you had caught Jim Sanforth stealing the spoons, so you couldn't tell him what the emergency was. But you had to speak to Douglas immediately."
Mackenzie sighed. "I suppose I would tell Jim that I simply had to talk to the boss - and that if I wasn't put through to him right away, the administration would never get another trace of support from the network, Politely, of course. But make him understand that I meant it. Sanforth is nobody's fool; he would never serve his own head up on a platter."
"Okay, Tom, do it."
"Huh?"
"Leave this call on. Call the Palace on another instrument - and have your boys ready to cut me in instantly. I've got to talk to the Secretary General right now!"
Mackenzie looked pained. "Jubal, old friend-"
"Meaning you won't."
"Meaning I can't. You've dreamed up a hypothetical situation in which a - pardon me - major executive of an intercontinental network could speak to the Secretary General under conditions of dire necessity. But I can't hand this entre over to somebody else. Look, Jubal, I respect you. Besides that, you are probably four of the six most popular writers alive today. The network would hate to lose you and we are painfully aware that you won't let us tie you down to a contract. But I can't do it, even to please you. You must realize that one does not telephone the World chief of government unless he wants to speak to you."
"Suppose I do sign an exclusive seven-year contract?"
Mackenzie looked as if his teeth hurt, "I still couldn't do it. I'd lose my job - and you would still have to carry out your contract."
Jubal considered calling Mike over into the instrument's visual pickup and naming him. He discarded the idea at once. Mackenzie's own programmes had run the fake 'Man from Mars' interviews - and Mackenzie was either crooked and in on the hoax� or he was honest, as Jubal thought he was, and simply would not believe that he himself had been hoaxed. "All right, Tom, I won't twist your arm. But you know your way around in the government better than I do. Who calls Douglas whenever he likes - and gets him? I don't mean Sanforth"
"No one."
"Damn it, no man lives in a vacuum! There must be at least a dozen people who can phone him and not get brushed off by a secretary."
"Some of his cabinet, I suppose. And not all of them."
"I don't know any of them, either; I've been out of touch. But I don't mean professional politicos. Who knows him so well that they can call him on a private line and invite him to play poker?"
"Umm� you don't want much, do you? Well, there's Jake Allenby. Not the actor, the other Jake Allenby. Oil."
"I've met him. He doesn't like me. I don't like him. He knows it."
"Douglas doesn't have very many intimate friends. His wife rather discourages- Say, Jubal� how do you feel about astrology?"
"Never touch the stuff. Prefer brandy."
"Well, that's a matter of taste. But- see here, Jubal, if you ever let on to anyone that I told you this, I'll cut your lying throat with one of your own manusc
ripts."
"Noted. Agreed. Proceed."
"Well, Agnes Douglas does touch the stuff�, and I know where she gets it. Her astrologer can call Mrs. Douglas at any time - and, believe you me, Mrs. Douglas has the ear of the Secretary General whenever she chooses. You can call her astrologer� and the rest is up to you."
"I don't seem to recall any astrologers on my Christmas card list," Jubal answered dubiously. "What's his name?"
"Her. And you might try crossing her palm with silver in convincing denominations. Her name is Madame Alexandra Vesant. Washington Exchange. That's V, E, S, A, N, T."
"I've got it," Jubal said happily. "And, Tom, you've done me a world of good!"
"Hope so. Anything for the network soon?"
"Hold it." Jubal glanced at a note Miriam had placed at his elbow some moments ago. It read: "Larry says the transceiver won't trans - and he doesn't know why." Jubal went on, "That spot coverage failed earlier through a transceiver failure here - and I don't have anyone who can repair it."
"I'll send somebody."
"Thanks. Thanks twice."
Jubal switched off, placed the call by name and instructed the operator to use hush amp; scramble if the number was equipped to take it. It was, not to his surprise. Very quickly Madame Vesant's dignified features appeared in his screen. He grinned at her and called, "Hey, Rube!"
She looked startled, then looked more closely. "Why, Doe Harshaw, you old scoundrel! Lord love you, it's good to see you. Where have you been hiding?"
"Just that, Becky - hiding. The clowns are after me."
Becky Vesey didn't ask why; she answered instantly, "What can I do to help? Do you need money?"
"I've got plenty of money, Becky, but thanks a lot. Money won't help; I'm in much more serious trouble than that - and I don't think anyone can help me but the Secretary General himself, Mr. Douglas. I need to talk to him - and right away. Now� or even sooner."
She looked blank. "That's tall order, Doc."
"Becky, I know it is - because I've been trying for a week to get through to him� and I can't. But don't you get mixed up in it yourself, Becky� because, girl, I'm hotter than a smoky bearing. I just took a chance that you might be able to advise me - a phone number, maybe, where I could reach him. But I don't want you to mix into it personally. You'd get hurt - and I'd never be able to look the Professor in the eye if I ever meet him again� God rest his soul."
A Stranger in a Strange Land Page 23
