by Dean Ing
"Dead right, son; in the second half you learn why it's nice to have strength three deep in the trenches."
Quantrill assembled a sandwich from cold cuts; popped the top from a Lone Star bock; sat back and studied the old man carefully as he began: "And you may get a hot potato in your lap. Governor. You remember that toy-sized synthesizer Eve Simpson lost? Well, what if I could put it in your hand one day soon?"
Chapter Thirty
The grizzled eyebrows lowered as old Jim Street regarded his new brick agent. "I don't believe I'm hearin' this, right on the heels of the F.R.A. announcement."
"That's what smoked the little gadget out, sir," Quantrill replied, taking a swig of beer. "Would it be worth a lot to whoever has it?"
"Who does have it?"
Pause. Then, soft but firm: "My question, then yours."
Street looked at the ceiling for help while his jaw twitched. "Ted Quantrill, you are the most insubordinate son of a bitch I ever met! Do you know who you're talkin' to?"
Still soft: "Yessir. I'm talking to the only man on Earth I trust with my questions — and one who understands about protecting sources."
"Then you don't have it yourself?"
"It doesn't belong to me," Quantrill replied with a shrug.
The old man nodded to himself, took his time smearing a corn chip with salsa that could have blistered paint, popped it into his mouth, and relished it. "I can think of several uses for the thing," he mused, dialing up the holo sound for the second-half kickoff. "Medicine on the spot; a fuel converter for those little bitty space probes; and of course a lot of foreign powers would love to get one so they could copy it. I reckon you could trade it even-steven for, say, the Star of India."
"The owner is afraid of its side effects. I mean, couldn't people use it to get drugs?"
"Depends. Some of those smart-ass gadgeteers could prob'ly limit the stuff a synthesizer makes, but as for ginnin' up cheap drugs, I sure hope so."
Quantrill chuckled and glanced at the old man, then did a double take. "You're kidding — whoa, you're not kidding."
The second half was just beginning. Street killed the audio again and, for the next few minutes, gave Quantrill his undivided attention. "Son, any adult who wants to kill himself with drugs, it shouldn't be gummint business. I grant you he's a peawit, but it's his life. This country's tried tight controls, and wound up with too much government. I was a sprat during Prohibition; my daddy was honest as they come, but he bought his hooch from bootleggers and so did twenty million other folks, and they paid high prices. Rumrunners got into reg'lar wars, and mulched a lot of innocent people and bribed a lot of others. It was the artificially high price of liquor that called for violence.
"So we repealed Prohibition. It took organized crime over a generation to recover from that, but drugs were still prohibited, even picayune stuff like pot. That was their hole card, son. As long as heroin is worth more than silver, we'll have a lot of violent crime over the stuff.
"Now, President McCarty and the voting public are bailin' this country out from under another age of tight controls. If I read the signs right, we might be ready to decriminalize hard drugs. Imagine what would happen if ever'body had a little synthesizer to make heavy drugs cheap as aspirin. It'd break the back of organized crime without adding one honest cop to the system."
Quantrill sat without moving, all but unbelieving. His distaste was obvious: "Christ! We'd see ten thousand deaths from overdoses in a few months…"
"Probably." The old man narrowed his glance. "You still haven't got over Ethridge, have you?"
Quantrill remembered sleek, athletic Kent Ethridge; recalled his courage in the rebel cause. "Should I? Shit fire, personal synthesizers would help other guys oh-dee! How can you tell me that's not wrong?"
"Of course it's wrong, like any other kind of slow suicide. But look at crime the way I have to, where folks get graunched by it just by bein' in the way. Son, the backbone of organized crime is the cost of drugs. All that money gives too much power to people we didn't elect. And when an addict has to beat in a few innocent heads ever' month to rob for his tonnage, that's just what he does."
"Ethridge didn't."
"Nope." said Street. " 'Cause he didn't have to. He got his tonnage in bribes."
Quantrill burst cut, "I don't believe that!"
"I'm sorry. Ted. It's true. We knew he'd been at it for a year, off and on. Maybe he was tryin' to get straight. He couldn't. I think his overdose was the only quick way he knew to solve the problem; the other ways were slow and took more gumption. It was his own choice."
Quantrill, acidly: "You think an addict has that much free choice?"
"I don't think there's any such thing as free choice; call it expensive choice. Whatever you choose has its price. A reformed alky pays a price ever' day of his life, wanting that drink he mustn't have. Or he takes the booze and pays a heavier price when his liver rots.
"Son, I'm tryin' to show you that if drugs become dirt cheap, we take power away from folks who abuse it. And down on the shitty end of the stick, nobody else pays the addict's price. He can go to hell in his own way."
"Like Kent Ethridge did."
Unrelenting, but sadly: "If he can't resist a known deadly temptation, yes; like Ethridge did. Meanwhile the rest of us could walk crosstown or take a camping trip without guns on our belts. We'd trade weak characters for a safer world. It's a trade I'd make in a second, boy. Now honest: wouldn't you?"
Quantrill stared at nothing for long moments, coping with a concept that wrenched at his value system. Finally. "I don't know. Gov. I wish I were as certain as you are."
Unwilling, as if admitting some vast guilt. Street said, "I'm not really certain; I can't be, 'til it's tried. Hell, it isn't up to me anyhow. But when you ask tough questions about things like this, you have to be ready for some hard answers. I know I sound bloody-minded. I'm just tellin' you what I think. And I've been thinkin' on it for over sixty years."
"So how am I supposed to feel ten years from now, when I see a friend synthesizing heroin?"
"Mad as you like. Tell him he's an idiot; I would. If it interferes with his work, you fire him. If it screws up your friendship, find other friends. That's your choice. We'll always have to protect kids against their own foolishness, of course. But if your friend's an adult, he should make his own choices."
Quantrill sighed, swigged the last of his beer. "And free choice is expensive," he said, nodding.
"One way or another. It's part of evolution; always was." Street reached for a cold cut, still watching the younger man closely. "There aren't many men your age I'd say these things to, but you've earned straight answers. I can't help it if I sound hard."
"My God, you sound like an anarchist," Quantrill muttered.
"Actually about half libertarian and half liberal. If you want to see a lot of fat-cat industrial honchos sweating blood and howling about communism, wait 'til America starts producing synthesizers for the open market. Whenever you broaden the power base, you piss in the pocket of the fella who already has power without bein' elected to it." The old man jerked his head toward the holo, where the Scoreboard read TEXAS 34, TCU 17. "The Longhorns know about a broad power base. They're three deep in the skill positions." He turned up the audio.
Quantrill saw unfamiliar numbers on orange jerseys. Texas University was substituting freely now, and three plays later they paid the price for that choice. T.C.U.'s tight end leaped high for a very short pass and slam-lateraled to the nearside guard, taking out the linebacker as he fell. A pulling guard with a five-yard head of steam can be an engine of mass destruction in the opposing secondary. The rules permitted the play, and instead of getting the vital seven yards, the Homed Frogs got twenty-four before a free safety derailed this runaway express.
Quantrill got himself another beer and chuckled. "Only two deep at linebacker," he said.
"Sucker play," said the old man, beaming. "Teasippers got a cushion with their first string, so now t
hey can afford to let their sophomores make a few mistakes, and they sure as hell do. I pity the next opponent that tries a slam lateral over that partic'lar kid. That's how you build next year's team, son. Stick him in there soon as you can afford to, and let him lose his innocence. Next year he's a veteran."
"Mistakes make this game fun," Quantrill observed.
"Unless you're on the team," said Jim Street with a wink. "Now then: who has that damn synthesizer necklace?"
Without a word, Quantrill stripped the velcrolok closure from a thigh pocket and produced the amulet, handing it across to the old man while watching the holo. He did not see Street grin at this elaborate display of careless ease.
After a long silence, turning the amulet over and over. Street made his accusation: "You said you didn't have it."
"Nossir, I said I didn't own it. And I don't."
"How'd you get it past my friskers?"
"They found it. It wasn't a weapon, Gov."
"Like hell; it's an economic weapon — or at least I think it is. Your friend just may be a millionaire, son. I'll have to take it up with the F.R. A. through a lot of gawdam channels, but you did right to bring it here."
T.C.U.'s tiring first team pushed across for a touchdown, and Quantrill said. "I guess Texas will bring in the first team again."
"Wouldn't be's'prised," said the old man, making a show of placing the amulet in his breast pocket. "When the issue's in doubt you go with all the experience you can muster."
Quantrill saw the parallel. "And trust. Gov." He flipped a nonchalant salute to the old man. "I don't mind telling you. I'm not convinced about letting people have drugs as cheaply as aspirin."
"I'll tell you once more: I'm not dead sure, either. I am sure it'll be part of getting more individual freedom and less violent crime. For what it's worth, boy, I give you credit for brains. You had to know you coulda sold this to somebody like New Israel for ten times what you'll get from your own country."
"Fat fucking chance." was the reply. "A friend once called me an 'agent of change.' The least I can do is try and see that the changes are made in the best interests of my own country."
Now the old man laughed outright. "Good luck, boy. We can never know that ahead of time. You know what the big synthesizer means to Ora McCarty's science advisers?" He got a headshake and continued: "Californium and plutonium from asteroid dust or plain old garbage."
Quantrill groaned. "Bombs? Again?"
"Nope. A real space drive. Fuel from synthesizers can take us clean out of the solar system. This little gizmo you handed me" — he patted his pocket—"might put a stardrive within the means of lots of folks. One day soon, maybe."
"I'd rather watch football. I'm just not ready to think about that."
"Then get ready. Because it's gonna happen. What ever made you think you can direct all the changes you trigger off? All we can do is try. Speakin' of which" — he turned to glance at the digital clock on the holo—"I'll have other fish to fry soon as the game's over. No, sit tight," he added, seeing Quantrill start to rise. "I'll need to know where to send, um, a sizable hunk of money. And one more thing: If you stand to get much of a commission on it, you might not want to stay on with me, nickelin' and dimin' and riskin' your ass. We could put other brick agents out there in Wild Country, instead of you."
Quantrill had little doubt that other agents were already out there; Lufo among them. "Maybe later, Gov. Right now I'm just too damn interested in seeing how this game turns out."
The contest on the holo turned, as Street had said it must, on the three-deep strength of the Longhorns: Texas 41, T.C.U. 30. But the old man knew that Quantrill had not been referring to a football game.
Chapter Thirty-One
In Oregon Territory, the October madness was soccer. Keith Ames risked hemorrhoids on cold bleacher seats with two hundred others and cheered his Ashland junior high team, a losing cause this season. Later he gave a rough hug to his twelve-year-old on the sidelines. "I'm proud of you, Chris," he said, tousling the kid's sweat-damp hair. "You scared the heck out of the district champs."
"We need three more guys like Paulie," Chris gloomed, and traded handslaps with a taller boy who had just taken consolation from his own father. Paulie Ewald would be Ashland's star wing in another season or two.
"Better hit the showers, kid. I'll wait here," Ames promised, and watched the boys trot away to the gym. Then, catching the eye of Paulie's father, Ames strolled over to talk.
They dissected the game briefly. Dom Ewald had a surgeon's keen eye for analysis, while Keith Ames, like many engineers, tended to suggest odd experiments. Paulie as a fullback, for example.
"You'd make a terrible coach" — Ewald chuckled—"but a great ambulance driver."
"Hey. I meant to call you," Ames replied. "How's that woman getting along?"
"Beats me. She walked out on us night before last," said Ewald. With his almost offensive good looks, Ewald compensated with a low-key delivery and an occasional practical joke.
Ames thought this might be one of those occasions. "Su-u-re she did. Seriously, Dom — or can't you tell me?"
Ewald cocked his head and thought about it. "Well… she was unknown and foreign, and you have a close mouth. You'll have to keep it closed, Keith." Ames nodded. "Seriously: she had a ruptured spleen with a lot of internal bleeding, so I repaired the splenic capsule first. And still we almost lost her because of something else. Good thing she was in such great physical condition. We pumped three liters of perfluosol into her, just getting her stabilized for surgery. Man, she's going to have some scarring, to judge from her mammoplasty."
"Dom, you're gargling Greek again."
"Silicon breast implants. They're what saved her life."
"I never know when you're bullshitting me," Ames said wryly.
"A breast implant is a little polymer bag full of liquid silicone. Keith. It goes about a centimeter under the skin and subcutaneous fat. Well, before she went over that cliff, somebody shot the lady with a tiny flechette." He saw Ames lift his eyebrow. "Swear to God. This little dart carried some kind of botanical alkaloid — a poison. I still don't know what the devil the stuff was, but it was lots more potent than, say, belladonna. Her pupils were dilated, heart rate like you wouldn't believe, hair standing on end, hallucinations worse than jimsonweed. Stuff like that might be used to immobilize you, make you so suggestible you'd answer any question — and then you'd die anyhow. Nice, huh? If she'd got the whole dose into her bloodstream, she'd have been dead before you got her to us. But the flechette lodged in the silicone implant. She just lucked out."
Ames shook his head, staring out across the valley to distant heights where he had found the woman. "Well, that explains why Chief Gannon came to my office last week. I didn't know much to tell him about it, and he wouldn't tell me a damn thing."
"I'm not surprised. He's got some, ah, other problems on his hands that are probably connected, and I can't talk about that. She said a lot of weird things while that alkaloid was in her. 'Course you couldn't understand much. Her face had gone through a glass mapfiche."
"Made me sick to look at her," Ames muttered. "I hope she wasn't a pretty girl… ah, hell, you know what I mean."
"I gather she was very fond of her face," was all Ewald said.
"Can't it be fixed?"
"Maybe, but not by me. I got her cheek sewn together, had to swing some little skin flaps down to cover denuded places at the jaw; put a few stitches in tension areas. But her face looked like a jigsaw puzzle, and from those old mammoplasty scars I'd say she was a keloid former."
"The only Greek word I know is skataa," Ames said with a mock-dangerous squint.
"That proves you're an engineer," Ewald riposted. "I'm saying that she develops scar tissue. I injected some proprionit — uh, I did what I could to keep the scarring to a minimum. But I guess we'll never know now. I'll say one thing: she's one determined lady, just to walk out in that condition."
Ames jerked in astonishment.
"No joke? She really did disappear on you?"
"Would I kid you?"
"If you'd spread cracked corn on a ticklish, sleeping buddy and turn a chicken loose on him — yeah, maybe."
Ewald hung his head and murmured, "Mea maxima culpa," but his mouth would not stop twitching. "The woman did pull out on us, really; wearing a roller bandage that covered everything but her eyes."
"I really feel sorry for her." Ames sighed.
"Me too. But I got the idea she knows who tossed her into the blender. That's probably whom we should feel sorry for," Ewald finished. They began walking toward the gym, comparing notes on the hunting season. For them, Marianne Placidas would remain an enigma.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Felix Sorel sunned at his poolside near La Mariposa and, for the umpteenth time, scanned the proposal in his hands. The letterhead from Pelfculas Clasicas, classic pictures, seemed genuine enough, and the return address was in Argentina. It was not the first time a holodrama producer had offered a part to Sorel, who was still something of a hero in Latin America.
But that cover letter smelled wrong; had probably been intended to smell wrong; perhaps it was the passing reference to financing from New Israel. Sorel understood the real proposal on his first reading of the "treatment," a brief synopsis of the plot with one scene included as a sample.
Sorel had never said yes to a holodrama, but on reading that single scene he felt compelled to agree to this one. He would play the role of a courageous smuggler, running guns to insurgents in some (unnamed) country ripe for overthrow. An arms manufacturer had lost three men trying to contact him, but bygones might be bygones.
On the surface, the scene made as little sense as most holodramas. It was when Sorel mentally substituted drugs for guns, and the prospect of legalized drugs for a liberal gun law, that he saw the part they really wanted him to play.
Stripping away the clever camouflage from the Argentine treatment, Felix Sorel wondered if, indeed, this were an offer he could refuse and live to brag about it. Probably not. No matter what he claimed, the Israelis took it for granted that he had iced their men in Oregon Territory.
