by John Brunner
“Hello, Garth,” he heard. “My name is David. We’ve come to take you away.”
“I don’t want—”
“Garth, in fact you do.” David drew closer, eyes alert. There was a breadknife on the clumsy wooden table in the middle of the kitchen; one heartbeat before Garth thought of snatching at it, the newcomer had already knocked it over the far edge and out of reach.
“Stay away from me!”
But he didn’t. Smiling, he reached out a hand and patted Garth’s wrist.
“Save your trouble,” he advised. “I know who we are and you don’t—yet.”
The turn of phrase penetrated Garth’s resentful mind. He said after a moment, “We…?”
“Yes, Garth. On the way here I’ve been talking with Mr. Youngman. He didn’t want to come back—said the last time was too terrible—but in the end he did agree, so I’m indebted to him. You are as well, of course.”
Mr. Youngman didn’t seem to understand the words. He had withdrawn to a corner, visibly shaking now. But one point at least had got across to Roy, for he forced out, “You said you’d come to take Garth away?”
“Yes.” Not looking round. “Whether or not he wants to come.”
“Thank God,” said Roy. And, an instant later, Tilly was in his arms and weeping her heart out for relief.
“Right!” David said briskly. “Move! Don’t bother to bring anything. I have everything you have, and more.”
A final flare of resentment. “Who the hell do you think you are, ordering me about this way?”
“I don’t think. I know.”
There was a tense electric silence. At last Garth rose unsteadily to his feet.
“All right. Whatever the hell you have in mind for me, it can’t be worse than living here. I’m coming.”
You’re watching TV Plus. Now for Newsframe.
British radioactive waste on its way to burial in China’s Gobi Desert has allegedly been hijacked by Tibetan revolutionaries. Hundreds of refugees are fleeing the area for fear of contamination. Both the British and Chinese governments are denying that there is any danger, but an anti-terrorism specialist in London was today quoted as saying, “This is something we have long feared. Set it on a hilltop to windward of any large city, blow it up, and you’d have a disaster compared to which Chernobyl and Three Mile Island were as nothing.” More in a moment.
The first “Thrower” candidates, standing for the British Patriotic Party in next week’s local elections…
Tired, Peter sat beside Ellen watching the mid-evening TV news. As ever most of it concerned disasters or the activities of the royal family and cabinet ministers. Recently the subservient BBC had taken to signing its bulletins on and off with snatches of the national anthem. Today the prime minister had mentioned the fact approvingly in Parliament, and much play was made of that.
More interesting to him, however, was a story with a medical bias. There had been an outbreak of botulism in Greater Manchester among people who had eaten frozen chicken, with twenty dead so far and more than a hundred ill. Now a radical vegan group was claiming to have poisoned the chickens and threatening a repeat.
The name they had adopted was The Hitler Youth.
“Hitler was a vegetarian, wasn’t he?” Ellen said.
Taken aback that she should know such an odd fact, he did his best to answer in the same calm tone.
“Yes, and a teetotaller. But he wasn’t immune from addiction. Apart from the drugs his doctor dosed him with, and most of his entourage, he was a chocaholic. He—”
The phone rang, and with a grunt of annoyance he rose to answer. Just as he was picking it up, the doorbell rang.
“I’ll go,” Ellen sighed, switching off the TV sound.
“Check the monitor!” Peter cried, but she brushed aside his warning.
“It’s all right—I saw through the window. It’s only Claudia.”
And it was. He heard her greeting Ellen in the hall as he said to the phone, “Levin!”
“This is Bernie.”
Instantly he was all ears. He barely contrived a smile as Claudia entered and sat down.
“Yes? What have you got for us?”
“Some good news, some bad. Can you meet me?”
Peter hesitated. “Well, my partner just arrived.”
“I’ll come to you, then. Soon as I can.”
“Okay.”
Though he didn’t think it was at all a good idea…
Playing hostess, Ellen brought Claudia her usual whiskey on the rocks with a splash of water. Accepting with a word of thanks, she asked who had rung up.
“Bernie. He’s coming round.”
Instantly she was alert. “With news for us?”
“Some good, some bad, he says. What news from you?”
Claudia hesitated a moment before replying. As though taking a hint, Ellen rose with a muttered, “Excuse me.”
“I don’t want to drive you out!” Claudia exclaimed.
“You aren’t,” Ellen said firmly. “But I have a lot of homework.”
Yet she left behind a definite atmosphere…
Looking concerned, Claudia set her glass aside untasted. She said, “You having problems? I thought, after we—what was that featly old-fashioned phrase you used?—ran our project up the flagpole and got her to salute it, everything was smooth.”
“I don’t think she’s in the mood for company just now. She’s upset because she was due to spend the evening with a school-friend. Only the other girl’s father has decided he doesn’t want his children mixing with niggers.”
“Oh, no!”
“Oh, yes.” Face grim, Peter dropped ice-cubes, crash-crash, into a glass for himself. “I swear I don’t know what’s going to happen to this country.” He splashed a generous double measure of whisky over the ice. That left only a drop in the bottle, which he drained into Claudia’s glass before dumping the empty in a waste-bin. It was likely to be the last for some while…
Sitting down, he concluded bitterly, “One thing’s for certain, though. Next winter, if the power-workers try to strike, they’ll be driven back to work by the army.”
“Who says so?”
Peter gestured at his computer. “Ellen lucked into that one yesterday. She’s getting better than I am at finding where the moles leave their droppings. This one turned up on a board I didn’t even know existed—let alone that you could access it free of charge.”
“And you believe this rumor?”
“More and more civil servants are getting so disgusted with the government, they’re risking their jobs and even jail to leak the bosses’ plans. This is just the latest of several similar cases. You can judge how seriously to take them by the vehemence of the denials that follow. This is already being denied in a hysterical shriek, so—yes, I do believe it.”
He tossed back a gulp of whisky that nearly choked him.
“However, it hasn’t happened yet,” he resumed when he could. “How are you getting on?”
“Well, I’ve been to the Grant clinic, as you know, and another that’s on the register, and a couple that aren’t and don’t seem to be any less efficient even though they’re cheaper. And in no case does there seem to be any way of accessing their records from outside. They simply don’t allow them to go on line, except for blip-style transfer to a commercial data-bank. I thought I was going to find myself knee-deep in puky sleaze—you know, corrupt quacks exploiting the vulnerable public—but in fact they seem to be decent honorable people providing a valuable service.”
“Hmm!” Peter stared at her. “And I thought you were too hard-boiled to swallow a PR job!”
“Fold it and stow it,” she sighed, sipping her drink. “What I’m driving at is that Jake was right. We’re going to have to fall back on traditional methods.”
“Bribery and blackmail, you mean.”
“He said that, I didn’t. And he’s a cynical cank, isn’t he? No, I think the right approach might be to track down someone—say a ret
ired employee—and interview them about their recollections. Elderly people, out of touch, are often more willing to talk informally than those who are still working in the field. After all, the past decade with its monstrous expansion of computerized records has made younger people that much more paranoid… You don’t agree?”—in a frosty tone, for he was signalling with his free hand.
“No, no, no! It’s just that you seem to be taking something far too much for granted.”
“For example?”
“You said ‘a’ retired employee. From every fertility clinic in this country? Do you think they’d all prove malleable if you could track them down? What if they aren’t?”
There was a dead pause. Claudia passed a hand through her hair, which was overdue for a trim. She had become neglectful of her appearance lately, and sometimes—as now—her face looked like that of a far older woman.
“You’re right,” she said dully. “Talk about wishful thinking… I guess I haven’t really gotten over losing my helpful friend the policeman. Especially since they seem to have wised up to the PNC access he arranged. Do you imagine that’s what Bernie wants to discuss?”
By reflex Peter’s eyes had darted to the TV monitor that surveyed the entrance. Setting down his glass, he rose.
“We’ll know soon enough. He’s walking up the path.”
Not so much walking as swaying, with a black eye, a swollen lip, and his clothes smudged with dirt. All of them, including an aroused Ellen, rushed to help: wiped his face, brushed his trousers, took his coat to be sponged, then sat him down with a good stiff drink.
Peter’s and Claudia’s, since there wasn’t any more.
“Who attacked you?” Claudia demanded.
“Who knows? I noticed they wore Thrower ribbons, but… Oh, most likely Special Branch’s bully-boys. At any rate they were fast enough on the job, and accurate with it.” He winced as whisky burned his injured lip.
“But why?”
“They don’t like the Comet, for a start. Because it’s dared to criticize the government, they’d like to see it fail. And they don’t like you”—a glance at Peter—“because of the fuss you kicked up over the Heathrow tragedy.”
Somehow, in spite of the reference, none of them thought of suggesting that Ellen retreat again to her own room.
“You think they knew you were coming here—”
“Peter, you weren’t born yesterday!”
Not waiting for an answer, Bernie glanced around. “My coat?”
“I took it in the kitchen to wash off the mud,” Ellen exclaimed. “I’ll fetch it, but it is rather wet—”
“No need! Just bring me the package in the right-hand pocket. Wrapped in a white plastic bag.”
And, a moment later: “Here!”
“Thanks. Peter, you know what this is?” Bernie opened the bag and produced a palm-sized, battery-powered device bearing red and green lights.
“A bug-hunter,” Peter said, nodding.
“Better. An exterminator. Want me to run it around?”
“No, I’ll do it.” Suddenly feeling—like Claudia—far older than his years, Peter forced himself to his feet. “All I can say is, I hope it doesn’t spot anything.”
“Clean. Rather to my surprise.” He switched off the gadget and tossed it into Bernie’s lap.
“Mine too.” The hacker frowned. “I hope it’s working. I’d have expected at least a passive tap on your phone—”
“Oh, I have a service that takes care of that. And my modem is protected, too. Lord, the shifts we’re driven to if we’re to think in private nowadays!”
“Not to mention the money,” Claudia put in. “You know it cost me a week’s rent to have your old place swept and garnished? There were bugs there, all right. Four.”
Peter started. “New?”
“By the look of them, installed after you moved out of the place. Usual bureaucratic screw-up, I guess.”
“Or aimed at you,” Peter riposted.
She paled. “I hadn’t thought of that! You’re right, of course. I’ll call the exterminators again tomorrow. I hate to squander Strugman money, but needs must… Well, Bernie!” Briskening, she turned. “What have you found?”
“Well, I’d better tell you the bad news first.” He sipped his drink and grimaced again. “It doesn’t look, after all, as though the Bill spotted the loopholes in our filter design.”
They looked at him uncomprehendingly. At length Claudia ventured, “How can that be bad news?”
“Because if it’s not the Bill, who else can it be?”
“You said before,” Peter muttered, frowning, “though I didn’t take you very seriously, that it was as though someone were getting to all your leads ahead of you.”
Bernie gave a solemn nod. “And closing off the routes to them afterward.”
“That does sound bad,” Claudia conceded.
“Not as bad as you might think,” Bernie countered. “I’m finding alternative pathways. They’re slow, they’re complicated, but they’re starting to pay off. That’s how come I also have some good news. It may not be as much as you were hoping for, but… Well, stuff the modesty bit. I suspect you don’t think too much of me, but I swear I’ve dug up more than almost anybody else could!”
Soothingly, Claudia smiled at him. “I’m sure you’ve done wonders. All we want is to find out what they are.”
Mollified, Bernie leaned back and gazed at the far wall.
“When I started looking for alternative approaches, I concentrated on the fertility clinic. There’s no longer any means of finding out its name directly, but I’d already established that all the kids came from the same clinic, right? So I tried trawling for low-level associations. That paid off.”
Claudia tensed. “Which one?”
“There’s a ninety percent chance it was in the Harley Street–Wimpole Street area.”
Bernie looked as though he expected lavish praise. He was let down. Claudia and Peter exchanged glances. Eventually the latter said, “But, Bernie, at the time there were five such clinics within a square mile, and another three or four a bit further off. What led you to this Earth-shaking conclusion?”
“If you’re going to make fun of all my hard work—!”
“Calm down, calm down,” Claudia broke in. “Peter, that was tactless. It’s a start, it’s a clue, if nothing else. And there’s probably more, isn’t there? I mean, you didn’t risk being beaten up just to tell us that?”
“Damned right,” Bernie grunted. Draining his glass, he held it out in hope of a refill. When Ellen displayed the empty bottle he sighed and set it by. “Yes, there is more. The confidence level is poor, but given the vagueness of the data it’s as good as you can expect. I wish I could ‘port you all the stages I’ve been through, so you could see how thorough I’ve been, but… Well, you said you didn’t want it on-line to anywhere until it was rock-solid. That’s why I came to tell you myself.”
“When you get around to the actual telling…” Peter hinted.
“Oh, bock! What d’you think I’m doing?” Bernie rasped.
With a frown Claudia signalled a warning. Peter subsided. She was right. The poor growser must be suffering delayed shock. No wonder he was taking a long time to make himself clear.
“What’s turned up is,” the hacker continued at length, “one of the points your average flatfoot wouldn’t think of. At that stage, you see, I still imagined that it was the Bill who had forestalled me. I decided to try sneaking in from the medical statistics direction.”
Abruptly both Peter and Claudia were leaning forward tensely on their chairs.
“I searched for children reported born by artinsem during the relevant period—sharing the physical characteristics you described—subsequently involved in court proceedings as juveniles—and backtracked from there to see whether there was any link between them that might indicate which clinic they derived from.
“Which there was. And what is more, there were enough physical descriptions
, albeit in sketchy form with very low confidence, to hint at a common donor for them all.”
“That’s fantastic—” Claudia began. Bernie cut her short with an upraised hand.
“Just one problem. There are too many of ‘em.”
After a long pause Claudia said, “I’m not with you.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll spell it out. The clinic that the evidence points to is the Chinn-Wilkinson. But wasn’t it among the most reputable of the lot?”
“Absolutely!”
“One of the clinics whose code of practice evolved into guidelines that are now internationally accepted?”
“I believe Dr. Chinn helped to draft them.”
“In that case, like I said: there are too many of these kids. If they all stemmed from a single donor, there ought to be a maximum of ten. But we know of that many already. I just can’t make myself believe that by this stage we’ve traced the lot. Can you?”
Pale, Claudia said, “I left a program running in the States to look for others. I haven’t interrogated it lately, but it’s meant to signal me if anything turns up. So maybe—”
“Maybe you have found them all? Sounds like negative evidence to me. What if the donor was servicing several clinics? I could imagine this kind of payment for a cheap thrill turning sort of addictive… Hello!” Bernie tensed, leaning forward on his chair. “Peter! Is something wrong?”
He had closed his eyes and was swaying. Alarmed, Ellen dropped to her knees at his side and clasped his hand.
But he waved her aside. “No, I’m all right,” he said in a thin voice. “It’s just that I suddenly realized who it is we’re talking about.”
And, with abrupt force, thumping fist into palm and staring around the room as though he had never seen it or them before: “Yes, of course! That’s the growser I’ve been trying to remember! Louis Parker!”
For a long uneasy moment there was silence. Just as Claudia was about to speak up, however, Peter relaxed and gave a short laugh.
