They were in luck! The grill opened beneath the curb of a groundlevel alley behind some apparently abandoned old wreck of a building.
“Hurry up!” Rhee called from below. “They’re getting closer!”
Johnson inched back a foot or so in the shaft, took out his lasegun and hurriedly burned through the cornerbolts holding the grill in place. He pushed the hot crosswork of metal outward with the back of his hand, scorching his knuckles in the process.
Quickly, he pulled himself upward, crawled out into the gutter, got to his feet in the wan sunlight, filtering downward through the many levels of glideways, ramps and streets above groundlevel. Duntov emerged, blinking, a moment later, behind him.
Then Rhee’s head popped through the hole, a pale, bone-white ghost’s head with oriental features and pink rat’s eyes. Rhee blinked in the shadowy sunlight, scrunched nearly translucent lids over his eyes.
“I can’t see up here anymore!” the albino whined. “Too bright! Too bright!” He brought two scrawny arms up over the lip of the grill opening, held himself wedged in place, kept his eyes tightly shut.
“Come on! Come on!” Johnson urged.
“I … I can’t,” Rhee said. “You go ahead. I’ll stay in the shaft until they pass.” He laughed bitterly. “I’ve been down here so long I can’t stand the light. But don’t worry about me. They’ll never catch me in my tunnels! I’ll meet you under the Museum as planned.”
“Are you sure … ?”
“Don’t worry,” Rhee said. “I’ll be there.”
Johnson shrugged, nodded to Duntov, and they brushed themselves off, stepped out of the alley onto a nearly deserted groundlevel street.
Johnson glanced once behind him as Duntov, without looking at him, headed away from him up the street into a small knot of Wards.
Rhee was clinging to the lip of the grill opening, just a white head and scrawny, nearly bonelike arms visible, eyes tightly shut, a cave thing impaled in the light.
“Paradox is the equation of Chaos.”
—Gregor Markowitz, Chaos and Culture
5
“AND SO, after leaving Johnson and realizing the important nature of the situation, I immediately called for a ship on the secure Brotherhood frequency and reported directly to you, Prime Agents,” Arkady Duntov concluded.
Duntov studied the faces of the eight Prime Agents seated around the massive rock table. Almost doglike, he had expected them to be pleased with him—after all, wouldn’t the death of Torrence create confusion, increase Chaos? Wouldn’t the fact that the Vice-Coordinator could be killed by the League introduce what they called a Random Factor?
But seven of the men before which he stood were frowning heavy, portentous frowns. Only Robert Ching, the First Agent himself, was smiling his thin, enigmatic smile, and what ordinary man could read what that meant?
“This plan to kill Torrence, Brother Duntov,” N’gana finally said, breaking the oppressive moment of silence, “it was your idea, not Johnson’s?”
“Yes sir,” Duntov said uneasily.
“Then may I ask why you volunteered this scheme?” N’gana said sharply.
“Why are you badgering the boy?” the olive-skinned, natty-featured Brother called Felipe said. “You know his mission as well as any of us—to report on the League and to keep himself in a position to influence the actions of Johnson when we so desire. To do that, it is necessary that he make himself invaluable to Johnson. Therefore, it was perfectly within the scope of his orders to volunteer a plan.”
“My point is,” N’gana said, “that from our point of view, it’s a very bad plan. Why should we want Torrence dead? Torrence is the chief opposition to Khustov on the Council, hence he represents a source of Random Factors. Hence, his death would increase Order and decrease Social Entropy. And that is certainly not what Brother Duntov has been assigned to the League to do!”
“Bah!” Brother Felipe said. “You’re too simplistic in your thinking, N’gana. Remember what the Council knows—that we saved Khustov. If we permit the League to kill Khustov’s enemy Torrence, it will look as if we’re on Khustov’s side. That will really increase Chaos. It will make every other Councilor wonder about Khustov.”
“Perhaps,” N’gana conceded. “Nevertheless, the death of Torrence still would remove a source of Random Factors from the Council, even if it would introduce a new one. The real question is, do we gain more tha we lose by his death? Is the total quantity of Social Entropy increased?”
Duntov listened to the argument in rapt admiration, amazed at the subtle implications the Prime Agents had discovered in what to him had been such a simple idea. The workings of the minds of the Prime Agents seemed to take place in a dimension far removed from that in which his own brain operated. To him, the Chaos he served was a simple matter—the sowing of confusion, fear and doubt in the enemy camp. But as he listened to the Prime Agents, it seemed to him that to these men Chaos was a living thing, a thing which commanded them as they commanded him. As he was but an instrument of the Prime Agents, so it seemed that the Prime Agents were instruments of something else, something great, superhuman, invincible. And the mystery, the incomprehensibility of this thing called Chaos only increased his dedication to its service. It made him feel he was on the side of something far greater than mere men, something so awesome that in the long run it could never fail.
“Perhaps the most chaotic move,” the tall, blond Brother called Steiner observed, “would be for us to kill Torrence ourselves. That would be a truly Random act. It would put Khustov in an impossible position. It would make it appear certain that he was in league with us. The Council would rebel against him, perhaps even have him executed, and without Torrence on the Council, there would be true Chaos, since there would then be no new center around which the power of the Council could cohere.”
“But that would make us appear predictable,” N’gana said. “It’s too obvious.”
“On the contrary, it would—”
Robert Ching, Duntov saw, had been listening to all this without so much as changing his unreadable expression, without even looking at the Prime Agents, as if contemplating something even these men could not see. Now he spoke, softly, quietly, and the others instantly fell silent.
“Brother Duntov’s plan,” Ching said, “has interesting paradoxical implications.” He smiled at Duntov. “The very fact that it has occasioned such dispute within our own ranks indicates to me that Brother Duntov has not committed an error. Paradox and Chaos, after all, are very close indeed. Chaos is paradoxical and Paradox is Chaotic. After all, even Markowitz’ simplest statement of the Law of Social Entropy is paradoxical itself: ‘In social orders, as in the physical realm, the inate tendency is towards increased entropy or disorder. Therefore, the more Ordered a society, the more Social Energy is required to maintain that Order, the more Order needed to generate that Social Energy, the two paradoxical needs feeding upon each other in an ever-increasing exponential spiral. Therefore, a highly Ordered society must grow ever more Ordered, and thus can tolerate less and less Random Factors as the cycle progresses.’ ”
“Thus,” said Ching, “the inevitability of Chaos. Increasing Order leads as inexorably to Chaos as decreasing Order does. All is Paradox.”
Duntov’s mind reeled. He had somehow never gotten around to reading the works of Markowitz, though he had heard this standard summation of the Law of Social Entropy before. But he had never thought of it as a paradox. His indoctrination had told him that it meant that any act which disrupted Order served Chaos. It had never occurred to him that Order, Chaos’ opposite, could serve Chaos as well. He still did not really grasp the concept, but the very invincible inscrutability of it all filled him with a strange ecstasy. Did the old Judeochristians feel this way about that which they had called “God”? There was something vastly reassuring in the thought that some great superforce underlied all, a force that could be used but never understood. How could the Hegemony successfully combat Chaos when th
e very act of combating Chaos served Chaos itself?
“I don’t see why you’re repeating something we all know, First Agent,” Felipe said, but with a quiet respect, as if he knew that Ching must have some reason, if only because Ching was Ching.
“Because,” said Robert Ching, “we do well to remember that we work within Paradoxes which work within other Paradoxes. Obviously, a living Torrence is a source of Random Factors within the Council. Just as obviously, a Brotherhood assassination of Torrence would also produce Random Factors, since at the very least it would cast suspicion on Khustov. A fine Paradox—the death of Torrence would increase Social Entropy in one way, but a living Torrence is a source of increased Social Entropy in another. This is the Paradox inside of which we must act.”
“It seems to me,” N’gana said, “that we must simply choose that course which will maximize Chaos. Our most basic strategy is to introduce Random Factors into the closed system of the Hegemony—at least until Project Prometheus is completed—and within a Paradox like this, we must choose the best of two compromise courses. We can’t have it both ways.”
“Ah, but why not have it both ways?” Robert Ching said. “We keep Torrence alive, and the conflict between him and Khustov generates Random Factors. But what if we were to kill Torrence? Better yet, what if both the Brotherhood and the League were to kill Torrence? First we frustrate the League by saving Khustov from them, then we seem to be allied with them, and with Khustov as well when we both try to kill Torrence. True Randomness!”
“You’ve lost me now, First Agent,” N’gana said. “How can we kill Torrence and keep him alive at the same time?”
“We do not have to succeed, do we?” Robert Ching said. “It is only necessary that we seem to try to kill Torrence. With a live Torrence convinced that we tried to kill him while we saved Khustov—you see the possibilities? Moreover, if we can save Torrence from the League by attempting to kill him. …”
Slow smiles inched across the faces of the Prime Agents. Apparently, Duntov thought, they understood what he’s getting at. I wish I did. … Or do I? Perhaps there are some things it is better not to know. …
Boris Johnson climbed up onto the platform of the abandoned 59th Street subway station, saw by the light of his flash that Mike Feinberg had already arrived.
He made his way to the center of the platform, where Feinberg stood, holding two metal cannisters, a big brush, and a small metal box.
“Rhee hasn’t gotten here yet?” Johnson asked.
“I haven’t seen him,” Feinberg replied. “I’ve got the stuff here, but we can’t do anything without Rhee. I can’t find my way around this place. There are lots of exits up above and the whole upper roof is a sheet of plasteel. Who knows which exit the auditorium is under? You don’t think the Guards could’ve caught Rhee?”
“Not down here!” Johnson said. “Rhee’s hardly human anymore. He can see down here, but he can’t see in the light. But if something has happened to him—”
“Don’t worry about me!” a sibilant voice suddenly hissed behind him.
Johnson whirled in time to see the pale figure of Lyman Rhee dart out from behind a cracked pillar. The man moves like a ghost! he thought.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Johnson said. “Sneaking up on people’s likely to get you killed.”
Rhee laughed shrilly. “It’s become a habit that’s hard to break,” he said. “But come, let us go about our business.”
Rhee led them up a flight of crumbling asphalt stairs to a large low-ceilinged chamber that had been the upper level of the station. The ceiling, low as it had been in the ancient days, was even lower now, for a thick layer of plasteel, shiny and out of place in the ruins, had replaced the old concrete ceiling of the chamber, and it was atop this strong base that the Museum of Culture had been built.
The albino led them to a barricade of old, rusted turnstiles which sealed off the rest of the station from the exits. They climbed over the corroded turnstiles, were led by Rhee past a concrete box that seemed to Johnson to be some kind of sentrypost. Then Rhee led them up a short flight of stairs which ended abruptly, sealed off in mid-flight by the plasteel foundation of the Museum which was a good deal lower than the old roof of the station.
Rhee placed his ear against the plasteel ceiling which cut across the stairwell and listened silently for a few moments.
“Yes!” he finally said. “This is the one. We’re right under the auditorium now, in fact right under the podium itself. Listen! The place is beginning to fill up. I can hear the vibrations of many feet, except directly above us, which means that the stage has to be here. We’re in luck, and we’re on time!”
Once again, Johnson marveled at the keenness of the albino’s ears, and his certain knowledge of the subterranean world. The Hegemony had created for itself a formidable enemy indeed when it chased Rhee to these grottos.
“Okay, Johnson said. “Let’s get to work.”
Feinberg opened one of his cannisters. He dipped his brush into the viscous gray stuff inside, began spreading it on the plasteel ceiling which sealed the subway exit.
“This is a nitroplastic,” he said, as he brushed the stuff on the ceiling. “Very powerful, and it dries almost instantly.”
After a few minutes’ work, the entire area of plasteel bounded by the concrete mouth of the stairwell, about six by nine feet, was covered with nitroplastic. Feinberg put down the brush and cannister, ran his finger across the dark gray coating.
“Good and dry,” he said. “Hand me the timer, will you Boris?”
Johnson handed him the small metal box. It had a dial on one face, with an exposed and moveable metal hand, and two sharp metal prongs on the opposite face.
Feinberg jammed the timer against the nitroplastic. The prongs stuck in the coating, held the timer to the ceiling.
“The stuff is electrically detonated,” Feinberg said. “I can set the timer for anything up to an hour. How long do you want me to set it for?”
Johnson thought for a moment. Torrence was scheduled to begin speaking in a few minutes. He might babble on for an hour or so. The timer should be set for a delay just long enough to give them time to get safely away. …
“Give us half an hour,” he told Feinberg.
“Right,” Feinberg said, positioning the pointer on the timer’s dial. “Now for the reflector. Hand me the other cannister and the brush, will you.”
Feinberg began smearing a gummy white paste over the layer of nitroplastic. “Interesting stuff,” he said as he worked, carefully covering every square inch of the dried nitroplastic with the paste. “Explosive reflector. I don’t know exactly how it works, but what it does is reflect back all the downward energy of the nitroplastic at the moment of explosion. It forces all the power of the blast upward, right under Torrence. You could stand right under here when it goes off and not be hurt—except for falling chunks of plasteel, of course—but up above. … They’ll have to scrape what’s left of Torrence off the auditorium ceiling!”
Feinberg finished his work, shined his flash on it. Every inch of nitroplastic, and even the timber box, was covered with the white paste.
“Okay,” he said. “All set. We’ve got twenty-five minutes to get out of here. Then—goodbye, Jack Torrence!”
Johnson grinned smugly as they quickly descended the stairs. Not even the Brotherhood could save Torrence now! There was no way to stop the explosion—even if someone knew the stuff was there. And nobody outse the League did!
Jack Torrence entered the big auditorium of the Museum of Culture through the entrance at the rear, behind a screen of Guards and counting the house as he made his way down the center aisle towards the small stage with its plain podium. He noted with some slight satisfaction that though the hall was only about half full, all the Wards that were there had been crowded into the front half of the auditorium, as per his instructions, so that the television cameras at the rear could shoot zoom shots of him over their heads as he spoke, thu
s creating the illusion of a packed house.
And of course, Torrence thought, it’s what the tv screens show that really counts. The Wards were stupid sheep—if you showed ’em how popular you were often enough, they’d believe that you were popular, and if they thought you were popular, they’d jump on the bandwagon and really make you popular.
Popularity itself did not matter to Torrence. But the fact was that a Councilor’s term was ten years, and several would expire soon. If he could build himself up as a figure greater than the Council, as Khustov had, he might be able to elect one or two more of his flunkies to the Council. If he were popular enough, it might even affect the Guardian’s choice of Councilors, since internal harmony on the Council was supposed to be one of the computer’s criteria in choosing its five Councilors. It’s never too early to campaign, he thought. Especially if Vladimir really has the Brotherhood in his hip pocket.
But that really wasn’t likely. Vladimir’s right about the Brotherhood, he thought, they’re just religion freaks. But, hinting at collusion is a good weapon to use on Vladimir now and then. Gorov’s a swing man, more machine than the Guardian itself. If his vote ever should really count, tying Vladimir to the Brotherhood just might bring him over. …
Torrence mounted the low stage, stood behind the podium and rustled the papers behind him. Today’s speech was to be about the beneficent effect of Order on Art, which to Torrence meant the effect of bushwah on baloney. The truth was that there was hardly anything to make speeches about at all. You could only praise the peace and prosperity so often. The Wards would not be exactly overjoyed to hear that Eyes and Beams were to be installed in all dwellings, and it was against policy, and for good reason, for one Councilor to publicly criticize others. It was also against policy to rail against the League or the Brotherhood—no point in giving publicity to either. So you spoke about trivia, like Art. The Wards didn’t care what you said anyway. All that counted was showing your face.
Agent of Chaos M Page 6
