"Now, Brad, you know you can't do that," she said. "Assuming, that is, you don't go and have a coronary or burst a blood vessel first. It's just not practical."
"Oh? And why not?"
"Because . . ."
"Because what?"
She sighed a sigh of infinite patience. "Because of Aub," she told him. "To be credible, you'd have to tell them where you got the information, and that would drag Aub into it. The only other way would mean you'd start a big scene and then have to admit that you'd got nothing to back up your accusations, in which case you'd end up looking silly. Either way, it's not practical." Sarah also knew, but didn't say, that whatever satisfaction such an action might have bought Clifford in the short run, ultimately it would achieve nothing significant. Even if such a showdown resulted in his being offered, belatedly, his rightful place in the operation, he would never accept it—not now; the price would be more than his pride and his principles would allow him to pay.
"Yeah . . ." Clifford mumbled after a while. "Yeah, I guess maybe you're right." He walked across the room and stood staring out of the window for a long time, unsure of what he was going to do next. Sarah said nothing but sat soberly contemplating the toe of her shoe.
She had a fairly good idea of what he was going to do.
* * *
"You can't," Corrigan declared flatly. "Your contract says so."
"That stuff's academic now," Clifford retorted. "I've already told you—I have."
A long table was set at right angles to the desk in Jarrit's office to form a T—useful for impromptu conferences and small meetings. Jarrit was leaning forward at the desk, fists clenched on the surface in front of him, while Edwards and Corrigan were seated next to each other on one side of the table. Clifford sat opposite them. All four faces were grim.
"There has been no formal request and therefore no approval," Edwards pointed out. "The matter will have to be considered in the regular manner."
"Screw the regular manner," Clifford said. "I've quit."
"I don't think you fully realize the gravity of the issue, Dr. Clifford," Jarrit stated. "This is not some trivial question that can be settled by local procedures. You are employed under the terms of a special federal directive which states, quite unequivocally, that you do not have the right to terminate your contract unilaterally. Surely I don't have to remind you that we—the whole Western world—are facing a crisis. We are living in an emergency situation."
"The screw-ups that brought it on had nothing to do with me. I've quit."
"Maybe not," Corrigan said. "But the same could be said for everybody else. Nevertheless, you'd agree that you have a share in the obligation to protect the nation from their consequences, wouldn't you?"
"That's what your book says. I never said so."
"Oh, is that so?" Corrigan felt himself getting into stride; the old familiar feeling of limbering up before launching into the devastation of another awkward witness was coming back. "Are you telling us that you are above the law of this country? Do you consider yourself . . ."
"I'm telling you I'm not an object for compulsory purchase," Clifford cut him off short. "The goods aren't for sale."
"You're copping out then, huh? That's what you're saying?" Corrigan's voice rose uncontrollably. "Democracy can go to the wall."
"What do you know about democracy?" Clifford made no attempt to hide the contempt that he felt. His tone was close to a sneer.
"I believe in what it says, that's what I know," Corrigan snapped back. "People have a right to choose how they want to live, and I'll fight any bastards who try to come here and take that away . . . there's a billion of 'em out there. Nobody's gonna ram some crummy ideology I don't want down my throat, or tell me what to or what not to believe. I make my own decisions. That's what I know about democracy and that's what I say you've got a duty to defend."
"That's okay then." Clifford's voice sank abruptly to almost a whisper; the contrast to Corrigan's shouting added emphasis. "I've chosen. You're doing the ramming." Corrigan's face whitened and his lips compressed into a tight line. Before he could form a reply, Clifford went on, his voice rising. "There's no difference between you and them. You're all preaching bundles of canned delusions, and it's all the same crap! Why can't you all go home and forget about it? The people of this planet have already chosen how they want to live, but the message doesn't suit you so you don't hear it—they want to be left alone."
"People!" Corrigan's complexion changed to scarlet. "What do people know? Nothing! They know nothing!" Jarrit and Edwards began fidgeting uncomfortably, but Corrigan had become too heated to notice, "They're just goons," he shouted. "They've never had a thought in their tiny lives. They don't know what they want until somebody strong enough stands up and tells them what to want. And when a million of 'em want the same thing they've got power and that's what it's all about . . ." He checked himself, realizing that for once he had let his mouth run away, and subsided into his seat.
"And that's democracy?" Clifford challenged.
Jarrit cleared his throat loudly and broke in before the exchange could escalate further.
"You realize, of course, Dr. Clifford, that if you insist on pursuing the course of action that you have indicated, the financial consequences to yourself would be quite serious. Your severance pay, outstanding holiday pay, retirement contributions, and all other accrued benefits would automatically be forfeited."
"Naturally." Clifford's reply was heavy with sarcasm.
"What about your security classification?" Corrigan asked, still smarting. "That would be reduced to the lowest a man can have and still walk the streets. It'd be the next thing to having Commie painted across your forehead."
"That would deny you any prospect of future employment in government service," Edwards added. "Or with any approved government contractor, for that matter. Think about that."
"And you'd lose your draft-exemption status," Jarrit said.
"You'd be jeopardizing your whole future career," Edwards added.
Clifford looked slowly from one to another of the three and accepted the pointlessness of long speeches or explanations.
"Stuff all of it," he said. "I've quit."
Suddenly Corrigan exploded again.
"Scientists! You wanna pick daisies while the whole world's up for grabs. You're telling me about delusions . . . and all the time you're chasing after reality and truth and all that shit! Let me tell you something, mister . . . that's the biggest delusion. There is no objective reality. Reality is whatever you choose to believe is real. Strong wills and cast-iron beliefs make the reality happen. . . . When a hundred million people stand up together and believe strongly enough in what they want, then it'll happen that way. That's what defines truth. Men who were strong built the world; the world didn't build them. Truth is truth when enough people say it is—that's the reality of the world we live in. Your world is the delusion. Numbers . . . statistics . . . pieces of paper . . . what have they to do with people? It's people that make events, and it's about time you made it your business to grow up out of your fairyland and tried to understand it. We made you what you are and we own you. . . . You exist because your toys are useful to us. We don't exist through any of your doodlings. You think about that!"
Clifford let the silence hang for a second to accentuate the embarrassment now evident on the faces of Jarrit and Edwards. Turning away from Corrigan to exclude him pointedly from the remark as an object no longer worthy of consideration, he quietly concluded, "I've quit. I couldn't put the reasons into better words than that."
A couple of hours later, as Clifford steered the Cougar up the climbing road along the valley side and looked back at ACRE for the last time, he became aware of something that he had not noticed for a long time: The air of the mountains tasted clean and free.
Chapter 8
Sarah looked at the numbers displayed on the screen and pursed her lips ruefully. After a few more seconds she switched off the terminal and swivele
d her chair round to face across the room.
"So, what happens now, I wonder," she said. "We're broke."
Clifford, sprawled in an armchair by the opposite wall, scowled back at her.
"Dunno," he confessed. "I guess I could still get some kind of job—nothing spectacular, but worth something."
She cast an eye round the room, with its tasteful decor and comfortable furnishings.
"I suppose all this will have to go."
"Reckon so." His voice was matter-of-fact.
She swung the chair through a full circle and came back to face him again.
"Perhaps we should take that jungle trip that you talked about. Who knows—peanuts and berries and things might not be too bad after the first twenty years or so."
He managed a grin; she tried to return it, but her heart wasn't really in it.
The news had come as no surprise. Not once had she questioned what he had done; she knew that he had done what he had to. He knew that she shared his values and would accept philosophically whatever sacrifices were necessary to preserve them. There was no need for long and elaborate explanations or justifications.
She swung the chair to and fro in a slow rhythmic motion and pressed her fingers into a point in front of her nose. "Just for once, let's be logical and objective. We ought to set out some sort of plan of where we go next."
"We ought?"
"Of course we ought to. The world hasn't ended, but there are still a lot of things that are going to need straightening out. Now, what's the first thing we need to do?"
"Get drunk."
"See, no objectivity. That's the American male's eternal solution to everything. All it does is shovel the problems into tomorrow."
"Best place for them to be isn't it? It never comes."
"Only if you get drunk tomorrow too, and we can't afford that. Let's be serious. For a start, I'll see about switching to a full-time week at the hospital. That'll help."
Clifford saw that she was making an honest effort to be constructive. He straightened up in the chair and his mood changed abruptly.
"That'd help a lot," he said. "You're great."
"We should start looking for somewhere cheaper to live too," she continued. "Perhaps a small apartment. I think there are one or two quite nice ones going over near Hammel Hill. If you could find a temporary job, we should be able to balance things and stay fairly comfortable until we've decided what we really want to do. What d'you think?"
"Absolutely right, of course," he agreed. "In fact, Jerry Micklaw was saying the other week that they've got some vacancies at the place he works. It's long hours and hard work, but the pay's good . . . and they get plenty of bonuses. If I got fixed up there it would give me a chance to look around for a while. Come to think of it, maybe we wouldn't have to quit this place in such a hurry after all. I reckon if we cut down on a couple of the . . ."
The chime of the doorbell sounded.
Sarah was nearest. She left the room to answer the door while Clifford contemplated the carpet. Absently he heard the door being opened while he thought more seriously about the things they had been discussing. Then Sarah's incredulous "Good heavens!" brought him back with a start. Suddenly the hallway outside the door was filled with a laughing, reverberant voice gushing through the house and dispelling the gloom like a flood of aural sunshine. Clifford looked up and gaped in disbelief as Aub's lean wiry figure strode through the door. Sarah stood framed in the opening behind him, her hands spread wide apart in an attitude of helplessness.
"Dr. Clifford, I presume." Aub beamed down and then burst into laughter at the expression on Clifford's face. Clifford managed to rise halfway before finding his arm being pumped vigorously up and down. "Seemed about time," Aub said, turning to shake Sarah's hand as well. "Couldn't think of any good reason for putting it off. So . . ." He shrugged.
Clifford shook his head in bemusement.
"Aub . . . what in hell's name? It's great to see you at last but . . . what the hell are you doing here . . . ?"
Aub laughed again.
"I just followed my feet, and this is where they came." He looked around him. "Man, what a pad . . . Fantastic! You know something, I really dig that mural . . . kinda soul-touching. Who's the artistic one?"
"Enjoy it while you can, Aub," Sarah said. "We may have to move out of here before very long. Brad quit his job today."
Aub's face radiated sheer delight.
"You don't say!" He made it sound like the best news he had heard for weeks. "I don't believe it. You mean you finally told those ACRE bums to go get lost. Hey, Brad, that's just great, man—really great!"
Clifford regarded him sourly.
"Why so funny?"
"You're not gonna believe it. We both arrived at the same conclusion—I quit Berkeley too!"
Clifford gaped for a second or two. As the message sank in his features slowly broadened into a smile.
"You did? You too? That's crazy . . . Why?"
"They tried to make me take that job again—the one I told you about—the secret project. But by that time I'd already figured the whole thing was a messy, lousy business and I didn't want to get mixed up in it. So I told them I wasn't interested. Then they tried using muscle and said they were empowered to order me to take it under special security legislation. I said I sure as hell hadn't empowered them, and not long after that it occurred to me that the time had come for me and them to go our own separate ways."
"Brad's cleaned out," Sarah told him. "They've cut off everything—all the benefits. He won't be able to get a decent job either."
"Yeah, me too." Aub grinned, shrugged, and showed his empty palms. "So, who cares? Just remember the ice ball."
"Ice ball?"
"Twenty billion years from now the whole world will be just one big ball of ice, so it won't make any difference. I always think about the ice ball when Murphy's around."
"Murphy?" Sarah was getting rapidly confused.
"Murphy's law of engineering," Aub explained, then looked at her expectantly. She shook her head.
"In any field of human endeavor, anything that can go wrong . . ."
"Will go wrong," Clifford completed for him. Suddenly they were all laughing.
"Well . . ." Clifford shook his head as if still trying to convince himself that life hadn't taken a sudden turn into dreamland. "I suppose the cliché for the occasion is, 'this calls for a drink.' What'll it be? Better make the best of it while the stuff lasts."
"Rye 'n dry," Aub told him. "Cheers."
"Vodka with Bitter Lemon," Sarah added.
"So what the hell made you come here?" Clifford asked as he walked across to the bar and began pouring the drinks. "I was just about to give you a call."
Aub collapsed untidily into an armchair and stretched his legs out in front of him, already seeming at ease and at home.
"That's a good question," he conceded as if it had occurred to him for the first time. He rubbed his beard reflectively. "I guess the thought never occurred to me to do anything else. It kinda seemed the obvious thing to do."
"You make a habit of just, sort of . . . appearing in places?" Sarah asked, perching herself on the arm of the chair opposite Aub's.
"Never really thought about that either," Aub answered. "But I suppose, yeah . . . maybe you're right. Good way to stay clear of getting in ruts . . ." He looked across at Clifford. "Oh—there was another reason I came here too . . . the best reason I find for doing anything."
"What?"
"I felt like it."
They all laughed again. Aub's very presence seemed to fill the room with a charge of optimism and confidence that, whatever might come next, they could handle it. Suddenly everything was going to work out in the end . . . somehow.
"So where do you go from here?" Clifford inquired as he came over with the glasses. "Any plans?"
"None." Aub shrugged and accepted his drink. "This is where I hitch up to serendipity, I guess. What about you?"
"No idea. Lo
oks like maybe we hitch up to serendipity together."
"I'll drink to that, Brad," Aub said readily. "Cheers."
"Cheers."
"What about your things, Aub?" Sarah asked.
"Things?"
"Possessions . . . from wherever you were living in California. Where are they?"
"Oh those." Aub shrugged again. "I sold everything that wouldn't move to the guy I was sharing the apartment with. Traveling light suits me. The rest of it's in a couple of bags outside the door."
"That's your world, eh, Aub?" Clifford said.
Aub made a wide circular motion with his arm. "No way, man. The whole world's still out there any time I want to use it, only this way they can't take any of it away. I can enjoy a swim without having to buy the Pacific." He thought for a moment, then added: "Did you know that 12 percent of all suicides are people with over a million bucks? I'm not taking any chances."
Clifford pursed his lips. "The logic doesn't follow," he said. "You're taking a big risk the way you're going."
"Huh—how come?"
"Because that means that 88 percent must be people with under a million," Clifford answered with a grin. "Try thinking about it that way."
Aub roared with laughter and slapped his thigh.
"I like that. But don't get carried away—figures can lie."
"And liars can figure," Sarah came in, looking pointedly at her husband. "I'm just about to start dinner. I'll make it for three . . . chicken okay, Aub?"
"You've talked me into it. How can a man argue with that kind of persuasion?"
"Oh, dear," Sarah sighed apprehensively. "I can see I'm going to have problems with you two."
"Never mind her, Aub," Clifford said. "Have another drink."
"Big problems," Sarah decided, and got up to go into the kitchen.
* * *
"So what could they do?" Aub rested his elbows on the table amid the dinner debris and spread his palms upward. "They're three miles from the road, their car's gone, all their clothes are gone . . . man, it's a problem." Sarah wiped a tear from her cheek and tried to stifle a giggle. Clifford spluttered over his coffee and placed the cup unsteadily back on his saucer.
The Genesis Machine Page 8
