“Even though people today have succeeded so well in obliterating the memory of their origins, it is generally remembered that Atomics was the first of the managerials, the resurgent center about which the forces of reconstruction gathered. From Philadelphia the call went out, and across the world, after a brief hesitation, came the response.
“The fact is that communications had become so good that, short of wiping out every small center of population, civilization was bound to recover. And not even all the large centers were wiped out, though few escaped quite as happily as Philadelphia. Atomics provided the nucleus of the new grouping of society, and the other managerials grew up around them; under their wing. The obvious ones first—United Chemicals, Agriculture, Hydroponics, Lignin Industries, Telecom, Steel, Mining and the rest; and after them the secondaries: Psycho and Med, Genetics Division, Leisure Group, and so on. The Council of Managerials was set up and now, as you know, in theory all managerials are independent and equal and with full sovereign rights. A balance of power.”
“One thing I’ve never understood,” Charles said. “How did Siraq come to be left out?”
“The Siraqis had spent centuries clutching the idea of a deity-centered nation. The managerial world had nothing in it they could possibly prefer to the concept of a Blessed Land. They made good use of the interregnum to occupy the Near East, and after that they stayed put.
“Today their country is cultivated up to the hilt and for the time being they have caught up with their population increase. Now, unless I am badly mistaken, you will see them go ahead.”
“With the aid and comfort of Channel KF?”
“That,” said Dinkuhl, “is my problem.” He paused in the act of filling the glasses again. “I had almost forgotten that you had a problem, too. Tell me, what objective precisely have you got in view?”
“I should like to establish to my own satisfaction that my view of the recent happenings is the right one. More to the point, I should like to find Sara Koupal and ask her to marry me”
“What’s the situation about leave?”
“I’ve been to P and M. They’ve given me up to six months’ leave, and a number of containers of mescaline which I tipped down a drain.”
“What are you doing with the leave—officially?”
“A trip to the Pacific Islands.”
“Got die tickets?”
Charles patted his notecase pocket.
“Hand them over.” Dinkuhl took the transparent plastic envelope containing the small colored plastic cards. “I know someone who will quite enjoy this trip. I would go myself if I didn’t have something else to do.” He glanced at Charles. “It is important that the tickets should have been used, just in case someone inquires. Now then, we’re ready. First to my place, for a little plastic make-up and then elsewhere.”
Two hours later, Charles inspected himself in the long mirror in Dinkuhl’s lounge. In place of his own features —pale, thin, with straight dark hair and, as he had always privately thought, an intellectual cast—he confronted someone with light auburn curly hair and fuller, high-colored cheeks.
Dinkuhl said complacently: “I believe in the satisfied customer; quite an improvement. That fill-in on the cheeks will go six months, but don’t wash it too violently. You can wash the hair. I know a tailor who will pad you out suitably, and you’ll look fine. How do you feel?” “I don’t know. Comfortable. I think I prefer my old self.”
“Voice,” Dinkuhl said. “Voice and bad taste we can’t do anything about. All right, let’s go.”
III
The Genetics Branch office was a four-story building on the comer of Cadillac and 17th. Dinkuhl and Charles went through to the central shaft, and on the third floor found a private room; the legend stenciled on the door was Official Awkright. Official Awkright was a short sandy-haired man who had something of Dinkuhl’s own temperamental appearance. He pressed a button and the door closed behind them. Only then did he grin at Dinkuhl.
“How’s it go, Hiram?”
“Moderately. Very moderately. Burt, this is Charlie. Charlie Grayner as was; now Charlie Macintosh.”
Awkright nodded. He put a hand out and Charles took it. “Glad to know you, Official Macintosh. I’ve heard about you, Charlie.”
“How’s it with you? Who’s in the lead now—Nature or Genetics Division?”
“Our brilliant scientists have developed an anti-fertility factor that can be added to the local water supply. From what I’ve seen of the figures, there will be some deaths, but not above one or two per cent, and the majority among the women.”
“A wonderfully humane measure.” Dinkuhl glanced at Charles. “Don’t you agree, Charles?”
Charles could not help being offended by the realization that Awkright was passing confidential information to two men from different managerial. It was impossible not to be affronted by this; he viewed Awkright with combined amazement and mistrust.
Dinkuhl, apparently sensing the trend of his thought, said to Awkright: “Charlie’s a rebel by force of circumstance, not by nature. Your disloyalty worries him.”
Awkright shook his head. “I thought you’d brought a convert. What did you bring him for, if it comes to that?”
“For his GD card, in the first place. You can do that!"
“I can.” Awkright stared at Charles, examining him with attention. “It might be useful to know what he’s going underground for.” Directly to Charles, he said: “I hear you got an adverse report from Stenner—you want to avoid a discipline? If you’re not the rebellious type, it might be better to take whatever they gave you. There are difficulties in creating and maintaining a new personality.”
Dinkuhl spoke for him: “No, not to avoid a discipline. Charlie is still well regarded in these parts. In fact, they are keen on his getting back to work as soon as possible. Some of them are. Officially he’s got six months’ leave on medical grounds, and officially he’s going to the South Pacific Islands. Here are the tickets.” Dinkuhl tossed the little envelope over. “Can you get these used today?”
Awkright looked at them. “They’re for tomorrow.”
“I know. Get them used today. It would not surprise me if Manager Ledbetter found a way of canceling them by tomorrow.”
Charles said: “Canceling them? Why?”
“It’s not unknown for Psycho and Med to call cases back for review, even within twenty-four hours. They might change their minds and decide you are fit for duty.”
“I’ll do it today,” Awkright said. “I still don’t know why he wants to get away, though.”
“It’s a private matter,” Dinkuhl said. “He wants to find Sara Koupal.”
Awkright smiled. He said to Charles: “So they didn’t convince you?”
“No,” he said. “They didn’t convince me.” He hesitated. “I don’t quite know how you people can help me. Apart from the new identity and so on. And I’m not even certain that the new identity is essential.” Awkright said: “Well, that can wait for a few hours.”
To Dinkuhl, he continued: “Bring him along this evening, will you, Hiram? I’ll have the card ready.”
The gyro slipped down toward a typical Agricultural outpost, the cluster of squat buildings which one saw universally from the air. Detroit was twenty miles away. The land here was flat and empty; it was not an area scheduled for night as well as daylight operation. Everything seemed deserted.
When the gyro touched down, Dinkuhl checked Charles’ move to get out. Instead he rolled the gyro along, on the ground, toward the largest of the buildings that faced them. As they reached it, the doors slid open and the gyro nudged its way inside.
Charles looked around. Full lights were on; the place looked like a gyrotaxi hanger—he counted a score of gyros before he gave up counting. Dinkuhl got out, and he followed him.
Dinkuhl said: “Fair gathering tonight.”
“Am I to know what it is yet?”
“Follow me,” Dinkuhl said. “All shall be made clear
.”
They went through another long shed packed with gyros, and from that, through a connecting corridor, to a third shed, more square in shape. The people from the gyros were here, sitting in rows of chairs but also standing, in overflow, behind them. At the far end of the room a rough dais had been put up. There was a table on it, and a man standing behind the table. He was not particularly unusual except that he was bearded —although that in itself was unusual enough. He was in full flow of rhetoric; Charles disregarded this for the moment while he surveyed the audience.
At first glance they, too, were a very ordinary assembly; they comprised a well-varied set of age-groups between early twenties and sixties. The first thing to surprise him was that badges of the different managerial were scattered indiscriminately among them—it was not a question of a bloc of Atomics, a bloc of Mining, and so on; they were entirely mixed. Then he noted their faces more carefully. One could read the everyday features that they must normally show, but they were clouded now by something else—a concentration, a passion, which he never remembered seeing anywhere. He looked back to the speaker: it was there, too, and in a more powerful and vivid form.
He listened to what the speaker was saying.
“… for time must have a stop! What comfort do I give you? No comfort but that of knowing and being prepared. For the sky will brighten and day will be more terrible than any night. It will be flames that brighten the sky, and the flames will be the flames of hell. When he paused, Charles felt rather than heard the sigh of indrawn breath from his hearers. He began to speak more softly, his words carefully brought out and speciously reasonable.
“Why do you come here, my friends? Why do you leave those airfoam seats in the cinemas, that TV screen, the airsphering and the lascivious picnics? Why do you leave all those pleasures and come here, to listen to me, a poor prophet of the Last Word that shall be spoken? My friends, you come because you are in Hell! All that is necessary is that your eyes should be opened to see where you are and what your sufferings are to be. And Jehovah shall cause them to be opened! The horn: must strike!”
Dinkuhl touched Charles lightly on the shoulder. He spoke softly in his ear:
“Not getting carried away, I hope?”
Charles looked at him, aware that his gaze left the man on the dais with a kind of reluctance.
“What in hell is all this?” he asked.
Dinkuhl jerked his head. “This way.”
He led the way to a side door, and whistled it open. It closed behind them, cutting off the vibrant eloquence in the hall they had left. They were in another corridor.
Dinkuhl said: “Didn't you know about the Cometeers? They believe that the Day of Judgment will come as the Comet approaches, and the end of the managerial society. The big boys know about them, and think they’re unimportant. And that suppressing them wouldn’t help, anyway—in which they are certainly right. Meanwhile, they provide a useful covert
Through a second door they passed into quite a small room. There were half a dozen people in it; Charles recognized Awkright. Dinkuhl introduced him to the rest; he was confused and failed to take in their names, but he noted that one was from Atomics, one from Steel, one from Mining, and the other two from minor managerials—Psycho and Med and Interplanetary.
Awkright said: “You managed to get him here O.K.? The wanted man?”
Charles said: “Wanted?” Dinkuhl said: “Already?”
“The alarm went out late this afternoon. We got our own man through on to the Tonga stratoliner, but only just in time.”
Dinkuhl said quickly: “Checking through to Tonga?”
“We’ve had the message mislaid for the night. It will get through in the morning. He will have got clear on a hydroplane before they can do anything about it. After that...” Awkright shrugged. “. . . There are a lot of islands in those parts, and plenty of places where a man who doesn’t want company can hole up. With the help of a few wrong clues it should be a couple of months before they even suspect they’re not going to find him.”
Dinkuhl said: “That’s all very satisfactory. Charlie boy, there’s nothing to stop you going ahead with your plans.”
“Nothing,” Charles said. “Except that you haven’t told me what they are yet.”
Dinkuhl grinned. “Slack of me.”
Charles looked round the little group. “I would feel a lot more at ease if I had some idea of what the whole gang of you were up to.”
The man with the Atomics badge—Blain or Baines?— was a lean sardonic individual. He spoke in an English drawl: “Hiram should have introduced us collectively as well as one by one. This is the Society of Individualists, Charles, Headquarters Branch and General Assembly combined. We lift our helping hands to any little lame dog that looks like he’s having trouble with his climbing apparatus. We don’t amount to nothing, but we like to think we do.”
Charles shook his head. “I still don’t get it. But, I’ll take it on trust for now. What do you want me to do?” Dinkuhl said: “It's your angle from which we are looking at things. You want Sara Koupal. You have come to the conclusion—and it is our considered view that you are very possibly right—that she did not commit suicide or get herself killed by accident, but that she, and probably her father and Humayun as well, were picked up by someone for some reason not unconnected with the kind of work that was being done at your laboratory. Well, who picked her up, and where is she now?”
Dinkuhl gestured round the small room. “We have a fair selection here, as you can see. We hear a lot of things, but we don’t hear everything, and whoever is holding these people will be exercising a certain amount of care in keeping the news from spreading. So the kidnaping could be the work of any one. Even Telecom. The point is that we have nothing to go on, as far as suspicion of some particular managerial is concerned. We all know Atomics made a bid for centralized control a few years ago. But Agriculture and Hydroponics had a try before that, and even innocent little Genetics Division have tried their hand—in their case a shot at producing super-geniuses who could do the rest of the work for them. In this case it might even be United Chemicals who had kidnaped their own people, though I can’t think why they should—or why they should let Charlie here loose even for a few hours if they had done.
“O.K., I’ll come to it. In my view, the only thing to do is try picking up the trail where the last scent showed. That means going back to Berkeley.”
Charles said: “I stayed the night in Professor Koupal’s suite. I went over it pretty thoroughly; so did Caston and Stenner. I doubt if anything will turn up there” “There's more to Berkeley than Koupal’s suite. There’s his room at college. There’s the chance that someone saw him in that crucial time immediately after he was last seen at the Interplanetary rocket pits.”
One of the group objected: “Berkeley’s not all that big a place, and everyone knows everyone in those campus towns. What excuse is Macintosh going to have for being there—he’ll be noticed as a stranger, sure as H-bombs.” Charles felt a slight twitch of surprise at the use of his new name. It was used very casually; he hoped he would be able to use it as casually himself.
Dinkuhl said: “Charlie will have two authorizations along with his GD card. One will be a routine authorization of furlough. The other, specially fixed for the trip to Berkeley, will be an arrangement to stay over at Berkeley as a visiting student working on idiopathic decalcification in certain Outer Mongolian tribes. It so happens that they have some stuff on that at Berkeley that isn’t available elsewhere on this continent.”
Charles had started. “What,” he asked, “is idiopathic decalcification in—”
“Their teeth drop out early,” Dinkuhl said briefly. “We will hope you don’t happen on another GD man working in that line—I think it unlikely. Anyway, that’s the scheme. Once at Berkeley, it’s up to you, Charlie. We’ll try to keep in touch with you, but essentially you’re on your own.”
Charles nodded. The Atomics man said: “Sounds all right.
I can think of about fifty things likely to go wrong.” “We’ll hope they don’t,” Dinkuhl said. “All right, then. I’ll run Charlie here back to Detroit and ship him on the stratoliner to Berkeley. See you boys at the next meeting.”
The gyro dropped at last toward the lights of Detroit, and to Dinkuhl’s house by the edge of the lake. Dinkuhl brought the vanes into vertical and switched on the landing fight; the gyro dropped effortlessly on to its grounding strip.
Dinkuhl said: “I'll shove this in its kennel. You know your way about the house by now.” He handed Charles the whistle-key. “Find yourself a drink. I’ll be right up.” Dinkuhl had put on the path-lights; Charles walked along a narrow strip of light toward the dark house. He reached the door, and whistled it open; the inside lights went on automatically. He made his way up to the first floor, and into the lounge. There was a whiff of some kind of perfume in the air; it was oddly familiar.
He knew what it was when his knees began to buckle: astarate, the nerve gas. He slumped to the floor with his head toward the threshold—so it was that he saw Dinkuhl appear and stand on the other side of it, looking into the room. He was wishing he could read Dinkuhl’s expression when consciousness went.
IV
the cell in which Charles awoke was windowless and approximately a cube, with sides of perhaps nine feet. There were two gratings facing each other in opposite walls—small square patches of mesh in a bare expanse of pastel yellow plastic. Ventilation ducts. A door was set in another wall. It was much too centrally placed; in point of fact the bottom of the door-frame was over a foot off the floor of the room, and there was the same gap between the lintel top and the ceiling.
Charles had a shattering headache; as he knew, an inevitable after-effect of astarate. He scrambled to his feet, wincing, and walked unsteadily across to the door. Dinkuhl’s whistle-key had disappeared but he could remember a few standard combinations of notes. He tried them out, despite the dryness of his throat. There was no response; the door remained closed. He pressed his shoulder against it, too, but it remained firm. He went over and sat down in the airfoam chair to think things out. It folded persuasively about him, and he saw that there were straps by which he could fasten himself in. He couldn’t think why they should be needed.
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