Eathen had joined them, standing unobtrusively at the edge of the clearing, so quiet and motionless that Anna would never have noticed him if her eyes had not happened, by chance, to stray past that point. But Cargill knew he was there. He didn't look. She sensed his sharp awareness. He knew.
Sighing, she attempted to impart the impression of dismissing the previous subject.
"Then what did you come here to say?"
"This." Reaching into the billowing folds of his burlap garment, he removed a folded slip of paper. "A clue."
"Well—what is it?" Deliberately impatient.
"The name of your father." Without modesty.
"His name?" Now she really did manage to dismiss Alec from her thoughts. "I can't believe it. How—?"
"I have my methods," he said, proudly.
"Then he's actually alive?"
Cargill shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't say."
"Well, what can you say?"
"I told you—his name. Beyond that—to carry the investigation further—it will be a complex and time consuming process. I—"
"You want more money?"
She nearly laughed at the anger he radiated. Touche!
"If it becomes necessary, I will inform you without hesitation," he said.
"I'm sorry. Please continue."
"Thus far, I have traced the name through our national network with, of course, negative results. I have contacted most of the networks in the civilized nations with similar results. I have not tried the primitive nations, but I will. Their record-keeping is notoriously—well—primitive, but I suspect we will pick up the scent over there. My time, however, is severely limited. When I accepted this assignment, I believe I informed you that any private work I choose to undertake must assume a subsidiary priority in relation to my official duties."
"Yes, yes. But—when? That's what I want to know."
"Oh, soon." He dismissed any strict construction of timekeeping with a wave of the hand. "I must complete this Mencken investigation first."
"But that may not be for months."
"Oh, no, sooner, much sooner than that."
"You mean you know who did it?"
"Oh, yes."
"Who? Alec?"
He shook his head.
"I asked who."
"If I were free to tell you that, I wouldn't be here. I would be making an arrest." He opened the slip of paper he had held in his hand throughout and read to himself.
"The name," she said, impatient once more.
He held the paper out to her and said, "Walsh. James Henry Walsh."
She laughed, taking the paper but not bothering to read. "That means I'm Anna Walsh."
"No, Richmond," he corrected. Then he went on: "I can further provide you with a detailed sketch of the man's life up until he was twenty-three. That would be four years prior to your birth."
"Did he attend a government home?"
"What makes you think that?"
"Nothing—a theory."
"He did not," Cargill said. "His parents died when he was young, but an aunt and uncle raised him."
"What if he's dead?"
Cargill shrugged. "Dead, alive, it makes no great difference to me. I'll find the body—presuming there is one— and ensure that it's his. In any event, I will follow the case to its very end. I always do."
"I'm glad to hear that. But—well—this whole thing has become rather difficult. Since you started investigating Alec too. If he knew you were here, he'd be very upset. Enraged."
"Perhaps he does know." Cargill met her gaze. "There's a man watching your house, you know."
"No," she said. "I didn't know."
"A small man. A Negro. Very short hair."
"Timothy Ralston," she said, without meaning to speak aloud.
"Ah, I thought I knew him."
"You know Ralston?"
He waved his dismissing hand again. "Only slightly but—if it is your wish—I can promise not to reveal our relationship to your husband in any way."
"Yes. Yes—I would appreciate that." But if Ralston knew, that meant the Inner Circle knew. Would they tell Alec? If—that is—they could find him.
"And?" Cargill nodded toward Eathen.
"I trust him totally," Anna said. "Eathen and I have no secrets."
"Very good." Cargill stood, brushing at his clothes. "I will send you the report to which I referred within a few hours. Whenever I have further information to impart, I will call."
"Fine." Anna stood too. "Eathen—see that Inspector Cargill reaches the terminal safely."
"Oh, I can handle myself," Cargill said. He turned and hurried back toward the house, almost sprinting.
Anna whispered: "Go with him. Make sure he gets on a hovercraft. Don't leave till he does."
"Yes," Eathen said, rushing after Cargill. From where she sat, Anna could hear the inspector's stubborn protests. But Eathen would surely win out in the end. He was quite incapable of disobeying any request she made of him.
A moment later, experiencing the totality of the silence around her, she realized that she was alone—really alone— for the first time in months. The house and garden were hers.
What was it? Her father? Just a silly obsession? Or was it really important—would it help her?
Her interest had been aroused some months ago. Mrs. Miller had died and, while exploring some old papers, Anna had chanced upon a brief typewritten note, unsigned and undated. The first few paragraphs had briefly described the pleasant state of the weather in some unnamed locale. It was the final paragraph alone, she knew it by heart, that had spoken directly to her: "I trust my daughter is well and giving you no more trouble than might ordinarily be expected. It remains my fond hope that it will someday be possible for me to see Anna but until then I am convinced she will continue to receive excellent care from you."
She had immediately searched the remainder of Mrs. Miller's effects but that one letter had been the only one. For weeks afterward, she had carried the single crumpled page with her everywhere. From various acquaintances, she had learned of Inspector Cargill. Contacting him, she explained the situation and he agreed to accept the case. She had really expected nothing. But now he had come and, without prelude, given her a name. James Henry Walsh. She uttered the words aloud.
She had told Alec nothing. Why? For many, many reasons: because she seldom told Alec anything; because he would no doubt interpret her obsession as evidence of reversion; because Alec, like herself, had been abandoned at birth, and yet he had never made the least effort at uncovering the secrets of his past. No, if she told Alec, he would tell the Inner Circle and that would be the end of it. They did not like to have their theories challenged, especially those that were most obviously weak. Maybe Alec believed what they told him: that Superiors are always abandoned children because their parents, sensing the strangeness of their offspring, grow fearful and choose to desert. That was what the Inner Circle said. She didn't think it made the least amount of sense, that it was simply a dumb subterfuge to avoid admitting ignorance. Why should the parents manage to detect so rapidly what hundreds of others—home officers, in particular—never noticed? And why was it invariably true? Every known Superior—more than three hundred—had been discovered without known or visible parents. The national average for abandoned children—she had checked—was barely thirty percent. It didn't make sense. And she intended to find out why. She intended to find her father and ask him.
It was time to go inside. The wind seemed chilly once again. She was starting to shiver. Standing, she took the most direct path to the house and stepped quickly inside.
In the living room, she found Eathen. He was holding a heavy sheet of pink paper in his hands, staring down at it as though confused.
"What is that?" she said.
He looked up in surprise, plainly not having noticed her before. He shook his head desperately. Could he be afraid?
"Give it here," she demanded.
He hesitated, then pass
ed her the sheet.
She read:
THE MESSIAH IS COMING!
THE WORLD MUST LISTEN TO HIS MESSAGE! AH TRAN!
The handlettering was crude, childish scrawls. Beneath the words was a photograph, a black-and-gray portrait of an ambiguously smiling face. The eyes were like the endless tunnels one sometimes followed in dreams. Who was this man? What was he? Messiah? Or devil?
Shaken, she crumpled the sheet and let it fall at her feet. "Where did you get this?"
"Inspector Cargill gave it to me."
"To you? Whatever for?"
"He told me—told me I should find out more about this man. That he could help me."
"How?"
"He didn't say."
She looked at Eathen carefully, trying to decide whether he was lying. But, of course, there was really no way of knowing. And why should he lie?
The phone rang. Anna waved at Eathen, indicating he should answer it. She remained in the living room, lost in thought, until he returned.
"Yes?" she said. "Who is it?"
"Samuel Astor, Anna. He wishes to speak to you right away."
"Tell him I'm not here. Tell him I've thrown myself into the ocean."
"He says it's very urgent."
"Oh, no," she said, but went to answer the phone.
Nine
Am I reverting? Anna Richmond wondered, as the elevator continued to ascend the outer wall of the building. Is this what it is like?
Eathen was standing beside the outer glass wall of the elevator, his gaze riveted by the unfolding panorama of the great city. He pointed at some famous object, spoke its name, but Anna shook her head; she didn't want to know anything. A terrible tenseness gripped her muscles. She knew she was shaking like a tall building in an earthquake. Maybe this building. Any building. There hadn't been an earthquake in the city for more than fifty years. One was supposed to be due anytime. No, she thought, nearly uttering the word aloud. I can't do it. I don't want to.
"Anna, is something wrong?" Eathen asked, turning away from the glass wall. She sensed his radiated concern—strong, more so than ever before. "Can I help?"
She shook her head. "I'm all right."
The long trip was the cause. She ought to have known better—really. It had been weeks and weeks since she was last out of the house, but still it wasn't until they'd boarded the hovercraft—crammed with the crush of morning commuters—that she'd realized how much worse it was now. The people who surrounded her were no longer separate identities to be recognized, probed, or ignored. Instead, each now had the appearance of some unavoidable mass of thought and feeling—a vast, bulky object—that seemed to crowd around her physically, pressing down with a heavy weight, forcing any thoughts of her own out of her mind. When they reached the city, it was worse, and Eathen had led her to the waiting cab as if she were blind or crippled. Here in the building it was better. There was only herself—which she could bear—and Eathen's faint radiations. Vaguely, she could sense others in the building as the elevator soared past floor after floor of tiny apartments. But they wouldn't let her stay in this cozy elevator forever. She recognized this. They were going to make her leave again.
"Are you sure—?" Eathen began.
"Yes." She cut him off sharply. "I told you I'm fine."
Now the elevator stopped. Anna wobbled dangerously as the doors parted. She peered out into a bright, wide corridor.
"This isn't right," she said, shaking her head.
"No." Eathen pointed at the indicator upon the elevator control panel. It registered 58. "I thought you told me apartment 5890."
"I didn't." Was there any point to lying now? She sighed. "All right---I did."
"Then this is it."
"Yes. Yes, I see." She drove herself forward—out of the elevator—into the corridor. Behind, the doors clanged shut with nasty finality. The elevator zipped away, speeding downward. The gaping hole in the wall through which they had entered closed like a healing wound.
Eathen pointed: "This way, I believe."
She stood her ground, refusing to budge. "I want you to stay here."
"Stay?"
"It's none of your business."
"But—" She sensed his concern.
Reaching out, she touched his arm warmly. "I'm sorry, Eathen, but this is an assignment." She tried to smile. "If Astor knew I'd let you come, he would take my head. You shouldn't know about any of this."
"But I-"
"Look, all I'm going to do is tell her what I'm supposed to tell her about Alec. They don't want her to worry. So it won't take more than a couple seconds."
"You should have just called her. There was no need to make you come down here."
"I wanted to come. It's better in something like this to stand face-to-face." Again, she touched his arm in a reassuring way. Oh, why was all this necessary now? Just last night—she had finally played for him some of her music— his feelings had finally been aroused. Was it necessary that they quit now? What was more important? Astor's silly plot, or the creation of a new race? "Look," she cried, spreading her arms over her head. "I'm not even armed. I won't hurt her."
"I never thought you would." Eathen smiled. She had taught him that—smiling—but the gesture still seemed cold; there was no feeling on the other side of the lips.
"Of course not," she said.
With obvious hesitation, he stepped back and stood against the wall. "I'll wait here."
"Good. And—I won't be long."
"No."
"I'll be right back."
"Yes."
She meant every word she said but took only a few steps—turning a corner so that Eathen could not see—before she collapsed in a fit of silent giggling. She lunged against the soft, padded wall, restraining herself tightly, avoiding making any sound that would bring Eathen running. But what was so funny? Why was she laughing like this? She didn't know, and maybe that was what was funny. Then slowly, piece by piece, like the reconstructed parts of a jigsaw puzzle, she reformed herself, regained control. She straightened up. She moved away from the wall and stood as stiff as a soldier. She marched off down the corridor.
"I'm fine," she whispered to herself. "I'm not going to do anything wrong."
Apartment 5890 fitted neatly into a snug corner.
She knocked on the door.
A moment later: "Who is it?"
She answered boldly: "Anna Richmond."
The door opened instantly. The face that appeared confirmed all Anna's expectations: Sylvia Mencken was indeed a beautiful woman. And her radiations—Anna stepped back: there weren't any.
She wasn't—she couldn't be—she was a human being. So how—?
"Won't you come in," Sylvia said.
"Yes, yes," said Anna, hurrying past. The apartment was a blank, impersonal place—a pair of rooms, with the bed occupying a sunken place in the first. Anna moved around - and found a chair against one wall. Across the room, hanging straight in the middle of her gaze, was some horrendous old painting: shallow-faced children with huge staring eyes confined by barbed wire.
"I find it amusing," Sylvia said. "And ugly. People back then—their minds were tepid."
"I guess so," Anna agreed, trying to shake the painting from her gaze.
"I hate the past," Sylvia said with feeling.
"Yes, but I came here to tell you—"
"You don't drink?" Sylvia, empty and silent, stood above her, looming like a grinning bird of prey.
"Yes, yes, I do." She eagerly clutched the proffered straw. "Please—anything."
Smiling, Sylvia disappeared into the second room. Glass clinked—ice rattled.
Is it me? Anna thought. She concentrated but—no—she could feel them: the others in the building. It was Sylvia---there was just nothing there.
"Here you are," Sylvia said, returning with a glass. Anna drank tentatively, failing to recognize the liquor. It was sweet.
"Alec is in New York," she managed.
"Yes—yes, I know."
"Of course."
Anna recited her lines the way Astor had stated them: "An overload on the New York to San Francisco circuit. But he was able to reach me on a private line."
"I see, but-"
"He didn't want you to worry. He's sorry about missing work, especially at this time. But he'll be back. Soon. Very soon."
"When?" Sylvia asked, bluntly. Anna wished she would sit down, do anything, not just stand looming there.
"I'm sorry—I don't know."
"Why is he in New York?"
"I don't know that either."
Sylvia smiled and for the first time Anna caught a firm radiation. It was strong too—there was no way of missing it: pity.
"But he'll be back," Anna said, desperately trying to retain control of the situation.
Sylvia nodded and backed suddenly away, coming to rest underneath the painting of the hollow-eyed children. "Why don't you tell me something about Alec? We'll be working together now—I ought to get to know him."
"What do you want to know?" Anna asked, helplessly. Sylvia was radiating clearly now, but each emotion came so strongly that Anna had no chance to identify it before another had taken its place. It was like standing on the beach in the middle of a storm. Wave after wave of feeling came crashing relentlessly down upon her.
"Oh, anything. The kind of food he likes. His favorite color. Or, astrology? Do you believe in that?"
"No," Anna said, trying to watch her words carefully. It seemed—no matter what she said—that it was wrong. "I don't see any sense to it."
"But that's just the point," said Sylvia. She wore a long, tight, black gown that bared her arms and neck while keeping her legs concealed down past the ankles. As she spoke, she moved back and forth underneath the painting, shifting sidewise, not pacing, almost dancing, a graceful mocking motion. "I believe in anything that doesn't make sense. Astrology. Magic. Numerology. Any form of fortune-telling. Even the bumps on a man's head. Or Ah Tran and his cyclic theories. Do you know him?"
"Yes. I mean, no."
Anderson, Poul - Novel 17 Page 7
