“Felix,” Robert said, meeting his hand.
“And well named, you think,” Felix said. “It’s my only birth-right.”
“Unusual,” Robert said.
“Yes, but not unique. What will you have?”
“Coffee,” Dr. Black said. “A la Turque. Sweet and thick and black as my, ah, name.”
“Grenadine and soda,” Nova said.
Robert had been going to order a beer, but he decided to follow the trend. “Hot chocolate.”
Felix nodded, scribbled on a pad, and left.
Robert pulled back his chair. “I’m supposed to meet someone here,” he said. “You’ll excuse me if I look around for a minute?”
“You have,” Dr. Black said.
“What?”
“I,” the blind man told him softly, “am the man you came to meet.” He lowered his hood to reveal the gray eyes of Addison Friendly behind the smoked glasses of Dr. Black.
Chapter Eleven
“C-seven,” Admiral Luche called firmly. “And I don’t care what Dennison says, I won’t believe in telepathy until I see it with my own eyes.”
Vice Admiral Barley marked his board. “A hit!”
Commander Pickwick stood at formal attention. “I c-c-can only rep-p-port what I’m told, sir. It isn’t for me to pass judgment.”
“I wasn’t doubting your word, Pickwick. And you’d damn well better report what you hear. I’ll make the judgments. D-six.”
“Another hit,” Barley announced. “You’ve sunk a destroyer.”
“Tell me, Pickwick, what do you think about this telepathy hogwash? G-nine.”
“I d-d-don’t know what to think, sir.” [“Miss. F-eight.”] “Admiral D-D-D-Dennison seldom makes unsupported g-g-guesses, and he has a habit of b-b-being right.”
“Miss. Telepathy. How much does he know? Does he know what he’s looking for?”
“He doesn’t appear to know of the sea-d-deeps, sir. None of the Intelligence staff do.”
“Except you, of course, Pickwick. I’ll keep that in mind. H-four. The trouble with a snoop is that you always have a slight doubt as to which side he’s really on.”
Commander Pickwick’s face reddened. “D-d-d-d-do you d-d-d-doubt my loyalty, s-s-sir?” [Miss. G-ten.”]
“I’m sure you’re loyal to an ideal, Pickwick. My problem is making sure of what ideal, exactly, that is. Miss. Don’t take it personally. We must all be on our guard, you know that. It’s our duty to suspect each other. H-eight.”
“Miss.”
“Okay, Pickwick. Get back to Dennison and keep your eyes and ears open. Somehow the Chicoms are on to us, and it’s up to you to find out how. There’s a spy somewhere! One of us may be a traitor. I’m going to have Dennison checked out. His father was Air Force, you know.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“They think we’re joking when we say we’re going to preserve American Democracy if we have to destroy the rest of the world to do it. The John Paul Jones Society is some kind of joke out there. They won’t think it’s so funny when they find out that we can!”
“I-six.”
“Hit!”
Chapter Twelve
Addison Friendly shifted his cup to the center of the table and pushed his chair back, balancing it on the two hind legs. “I’m an observer,” he said. “I go among people to see what they do, what motivates them, what they respond to and are afraid of. I do this in whatever persona is appropriate. Leah goes with me; I find her useful.”
“But isn’t a thing like this dangerous?”
“Life itself is the ultimate danger,” Friendly said. “Few of us get out alive. Leah and I will, at least, have lived. My dear young Lieutenant, this age is populated with materialists, mystics, and fanatics. I am a romantic, as out of place in this unhappy, overcrowded world as a poet or a unicorn. Whatever I do, I do in disguise. I should have a brocade cloak about my shoulders and a slim blade suspended from my baldric, and let those who doubt measure my manhood by the length of that blade. Impute Freudian implications to that image at your peril. Leah, she comes along for her own reasons.”
Robert looked at the girl who was snuggled into a deep shadow in the corner, and she ignored his glance; meeting his eyes for a bare half-second as she surveyed the room from the security of Addison Friendly’s left hand. Robert found it hard to believe that this panther in slacks was the petite, feminine secretary he had met that morning. He felt a twinge of jealousy which he didn’t care to analyze. “Why do you come here?” he asked Friendly.
“Here? This is the half-world, or, as its dwellers call it, the Unworld. Here is the place where people do as they wish because nobody cares what or who they are. The people in our world, with red-seal, earned money and jobs and security and all the collapsible luxuries you can cram into a too-small apartment with no closets; they’re not going to take the chance of breaking the mold and, perhaps, ending up here.”
“I wouldn’t like to live here.” Robert said.
“Neither would I. Neither do the people who live here, but they have no choice. At least they have nothing to lose by being whatever they are.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Robert said. “I am what I am.”
Friendly chuckled. “That’s a great line for a sailor. Let’s stop trying to discuss socialistics. Everything that’s happened to the great mass of humanity since the end of the eighteenth century is a mistake, that’s my word. Everyone is miserable today. Now let’s stop talking about it and be happy. Perhaps you would like to go somewhere where they serve alcoholic beverages or some of the sociable drugs?”
“No,” Robert assured him. “This is fine. I don’t drink much, or smoke anything but an occasional pipeful of tobacco. I grew up in a farm town in Nebraska and went into the Navy right after college. I guess I didn’t have much of a chance to pick up the standard vices.”
Leah looked at him with renewed interest, but Robert was not pleased. He felt like a specimen. “What about college?” she asked. “That’s where most of us are educated.”
“Central Reserve Eclectic Institute,” Robert told her. “The cubical center of the universe. My mother had some peculiar ideas about education.”
“Don’t apologize,” Friendly said firmly. “People who go about for large portions of their lives with their brains and senses befuddled and call it entertainment—or, worse yet, enlightenment—are the ones to be pitied. What you are, Lieutenant, is a conscious mind that rides around in a vehicle called the body. It’s a damn good idea to keep both of them in as good repair as possible.”
“You’re lecturing again,” Leah told him softly.
“Yes, I know. Take notes; there’ll be a quiz next period.”
“That’s kind of what I thought,” Robert said. “But I thought it was a hangover from my Protestant upbringing.”
“Don’t throw out the baby with the bathwater.” Friendly said, banging his cane on the table for emphasis. “The trouble with the modern world—how’s that for openers?—is that when part of an idea or ideal looks outmoded they discard the whole thing. Except for that part of the population that clings tenaciously to whatever they were taught to believe, regardless of its value. Think how nice it would be if we’d achieved population control a hundred years ago when the problem was first realized instead of having to wait through three generations of people who thought it was a trick until the idea took hold in the poor areas where it was needed most. The Unpeople are actually the unwanted people. They are our surplus. Of course, what makes them surplus rather than you or me is merely an accident of birth—or good parent picking, if you believe in reincarnation.”
“I’ll believe in anything you want me to,” Robert said. “Put down that cane.”
“Merely for emphasis, my boy,” Friendly assured him, sliding the cane back under the table. “Ah! The gentleman we have been awaiting has just entered the joint. Now we shall be able to proceed with our surreptitious assignment. I’ve always thought I would have
made an excellent spy; perhaps during the time of Louis the Thirteenth, or for William Pitt the younger against Napoleon.”
“Isn’t that sort of border-hopping?” Robert asked, looking around to see who had just come in.
“That’s merely a detail, it’s the spirit that counts. Perhaps in the Maquis, fighting Hitler and the Gestapo. Sneaking across rooftops, hiding in shadows, depending upon your own wit and cunning for survival; now that’s what I call being alive. Ah, there were men walked the earth in those days.”
“Well, you certainly were alive for as long as you managed to stay alive, I’ll grant you that. It’s not my idea of a pleasant Sunday outing. Who is this person we’ve been waiting for? I didn’t know we were waiting for anyone. Call him over to the table.”
“Don’t be impetuous,” Friendly said. “We don’t want to call undue attention to our interest, that would be unwise. Practice wisdom and deep breathing. He will be over to see us in the fullness of time.”
Time, in this case, took about ten minutes to fill.
Chapter Thirteen
George Hing strode up and back the length of the ornate inner chamber, his slipper-shod heels brushing static from the deep-pile carpet. With his hands closed and an upraised right thumb, he stabbed the air and lectured the group assembled before him. His voice was dry and his words pedantic; he could have been conducting an advanced seminar at some university except for the curious way everyone in the group avoided his gaze. “In the never-to-be-forgotten words of the honorable Chairman Mao,” he said, “—you are, I’m sure, all familiar with Chairman Mao? I quote Chairman Mao on discipline. Discipline.” He thrust one finger into the air. “‘The individual is subordinate to the organization.’”
Two fingers: “‘The minority is subordinate to the majority.’”
Three: “‘The lower level is subordinate to the higher level,’ and—”
Four fingers: “‘The entire membership is subordinate to the Central Committee.
“‘Whoever violates these articles of discipline disrupts Party unity.’”
Hing stopped pacing and faced the group. “I could have you all shot,” he said dispassionately. “Personally it would give me great pleasure.” He sighed and resumed pacing.
“There was once, a long time ago, in the state of Florida, the United States of America, a sheriff who was removed from office by the governor for ‘malfeasance, misfeasance, and nonfeasance.’ I had always doubted that it was possible to be guilty of all three simultaneously. I thank you gentlemen, singly and collectively, for restoring my faith.”
Hing abruptly stopped and sat, cross-legged, on the floor. The others hurried to abase themselves to his level or lower and sat attentively, avoiding his eye. “I am sent over here,” he continued, “to take over the most important clandestine operation in the history of the Strategic Service of the Central Committee of the People’s Republic. To shepherd the most important discovery since the war rocket. To offer assistance to a well-organized, highly efficient, elite cell of professional espionage agents. What do I find? You! The great rot is descending. I would be honored if you would offer me a cup of tea.”
There was a polite scramble to produce a teapot and cups. When this was accomplished, and all were settled again. Hing sipped at his tea and continued:
“For the two generations of Sen, I have no words. Established here many years ago as sleeper agents in the Chinese-American community, they have themselves turned into petit-bourgeois businessmen. They were disturbed two years ago, when they were activated to serve as the nucleus of the group. Disturbed! I have no words.
“As for you others: the operation is put into effect during a major convention of our target group, the John Paul Jones Society. The apparatus and the human receptor are successfully established in a room in the hotel. Two days later, before we can get any but the most fragmentary and confusing information, the operation is discovered, the apparatus self-destructed (thank Mao for that), and the receptor captured. And why was it discovered? Why? Unbelievable. The operators, both of them, mind you, went to lunch together. Ham sandwiches. And the girl—the receptor—apparently started to scream.” Hing put down his teacup and stared accusingly at the ceiling. “Ham sandwiches,” he said mildly. “Ham sandwiches. And then, for no reason that anyone has been able to explain to me, they attempt to eliminate the receptor, who is lying peacefully in a hospital bed unable to talk. Thus drawing even greater attention to the whole event.”
He slowly lowered his gaze from the ceiling to the group. For a long moment nothing was said, and the tapestries absorbed even the comforting sounds of breathing. All was still.
“I am reminded,” Hing mused softly, “of a passage from an ancient book: the Celestial Emporium of Benevolent Knowledge; which divides all animals into categories.”
The group moved nervously. Hing looked up at the ceiling. “Let me see,” he said. “Ah, yes.” He brought his eyes back down to his surroundings. “Some fourteen categories, as I remember, stated thusly:
“Those belonging to the Emperor;
“Embalmed ones;
“Those that are trained;
“Suckling pigs;
“Mermaids;
“Fabulous ones;
“Stray dogs;
“Those included in this classification;
“Those that tremble as if they were mad;
“Innumerable ones;
“Those drawn with a very fine camel’s hair brush;
“Those that have just broken a flower vase;
“Those that resemble flies from a distance;
“Others.”
Hing continued staring at the group, who contrived to look puzzled without meeting his eye. “I have a great fondness for lists,” he told them. “Our ancestors were possessed of an admirable subtlety. Consideration of such ancient enumerations as this tends to impart much wisdom and greatly increase ones ability to create exacting metaphor and simile. There are several of the mentioned categories that would serve to describe you, singly and collectively; the ninth, for example, or the twelfth.
“My point, however, if this little digression can be said to have a point, is that we all belong in the first category. We all belong to the Emperor. Today the position of Emperor is occupied by the Central Committee in the name of the People. Not to push the point too far,” Hing continued, his voice growing deceptively low, “but I would also call your attention to the second category of the enumeration. Any of you who wish to be transferred to this second category will be accommodated. I shall be watching you all for any further actions on your part that seem to indicate this wish.”
“Now,” he held out his cup for a refill, “enough of this frivolity. We must make plans and secure our base. We have made enough mistakes in the recent past to warrant a small plaque in some obscure stretch of the Great Wall. We must start by rectifying these errors and preventing them from growing. I await your intelligent suggestions.”
Chapter Fourteen
Robert was not prepared for the pink paisley, puff-sleeved presence that paraded up to the table and plumped itself down. It extended one languorous arm. “Well, Doctor Black and Nova, you have no idea what a pleasure it is to see you again. No idea at all. And whom, if I may ask, is this handsome young man?”
Friendly nodded gravely. “Mr. Burrows, this is, um, Bess.”
The pink apparition waved a moist palm at Robert. “Good Queen Bess, my very good friends call me.”
Robert felt very midwestern and out of place. “Glad to meet you, sir or madam,” he said politely. He felt that Addison Friendly was deliberately trying to show him that his grip on things wasn’t as strong as he liked to think. He was being presented with a rapid series of events that he found himself less than able to cope with: the fight, the street itself, “Doctor Black” and “Nova,” the cat-eyed manager, and now this swishy pusher.
“Well!” Good Queen Bess snorted. “Sarcasm rolls off my back like a wet turtle. I am what I am, and there
are those who love me for it.”
“Of course there are, Bess,” Friendly said soothingly. “My friend wasn’t being sarcastic at all, merely unsure.”
“If you say so, Doctor. I’ll have you know that every paisley on my puff is the symbol of requited love. I am wanted for my-very-self alone.”
“It’s evident in your glance. As a matter of fact, Bess, this evening you are wanted by me.”
“By you? Doctor, you mean—oh, of course, business. You want to buy and I want to sell. Somehow that’s the story of my life. What can I do for you? If I don’t have it, I can get it.”
“Silver ice,” Friendly said.
Bess glanced nervously around and then settled more deeply into his chair, wiping his face with a large, red and white striped handkerchief. “I can’t get it,” he said in a hasty undertone. “What in the name of all that’s gay and free do you want that stuff for?”
“For two years,” Friendly told him sternly, “you and I have been meeting here and having our little conversations, and for two years you have been offering me drugs: legal drugs, illegal drugs, strong drugs, weak drugs, barbiturates, narcotics, stimulants, depressants, tranquilizers, psychic energizers, id enhancers, hallucinogens, ups, downs, ins, outs, and aways. And now I name the one I want and you don’t have it. I distinctly remember you mentioning it as a commodity you could supply if I desired. I distinctly remember you urging me to try it. The greatest thing, you told me, since digital sex. What has happened to change this situation?”
Bess placed his hands, sweaty palms up, on the table. “For two years you haven’t taken so much as a puff of weed from me and now you suddenly want silver ice, one of the most expensive, degenerate forms of mind rot around. You think I’d sell it to you?”
“Are you of the opinion,” Friendly asked, “that because I’m blind, I’m also stupid? You’d sell your maternal grandmother to the Frog King.”
Psi Hunt Page 6
