“He what?” How Glass looked at his men. He sat up. “And what did he and the woman do?”
“They made love,” said the man. “We had a peeper on the apartment, a little portable job, so we couldn’t make out their whispering, but they got on the bed and . . .”
“Spare me the details,” said Glass. “Did you have the woman followed or is that too much to hope for?”
“Ourran trailed her, but he lost her in the Lascadou District. He said he thinks she ducked into the tunnels.”
“That’s Ourran’s excuse for inefficiency,” said Glass. “Did you recognize the woman?”
“She looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her.” The man looked at the floor.
“And I presume you had no camera to get a picture of her?”
“It wasn’t that kind of assignment.”
Glass showed signs of restlessness, chewed at his lip. The nervous tie rippled across his cheek. “A badly bungled job. All I asked you to do was to pick him up, hold him overnight and send him off to the ALP in the morning. It seems you can’t do a simple little job like that.” He drained his drink.
The men shuffled their feet. “I think he has friends in the High-Opp,” said the one who had been doing the talking.
The Coor rattled the ice in his glass. “Yes, that’s a possible explanation.” He looked toward his bedroom where someone could be heard stirring about. “Put a watch on the Warrens. Get Addington to send out search squads.”
“We’ll keep an eye on the transports, too, sir.”
“Do that.” Glass suddenly glared up at the man who had been speaking. “And listen to me, Pescado! No more bungling!”
The man lowered his eyes. “Yes, sir. What’ll we do with Movius when we find him?”
Glass lifted himself to his feet, again looked toward the bedroom. “Kill him.”
“You don’t want us to question . . .”
“Good night,” said The Coor. “I have some business which requires my attention.”
“Kill him it is, sir.”
Glass escorted them to the door, returned, mixed two drinks at a portable bar, took them into the bedroom.
Chapter 6
Nathan O’Brien, his back to the night-filled window, stared at Quilliam London for a moment. The old man had just entered the top floor office in the Bu-Psych Building. “Well?”
London took his time sitting down, settled back in the chair, suddenly looked up at O’Brien with those sharp hunter’s eyes. “He’s the one, all right.”
O’Brien relaxed. “I take it you approve?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Oh?”
Silence fell between them. London turned, stared at a chart on the wall. It was the chart which had been on the table. The single red line had been moved perhaps a quarter of an inch farther along its mysterious crossing.
“The loyalty index thing?” asked O’Brien.
London nodded. “He moves too quickly. Snap decisions. He made some fool statement about not thinking out things. The right solution always comes to him. I’m afraid he may turn ruthless.”
“That makes a good revolutionary.”
“Depends on the revolution.”
O’Brien looked at the red line on the chart. “Do you think he’s dangerous?”
“I know he’s dangerous.” London leaned forward, tapped a yellowed fingernail against the table top. “Give him a taste of the power that goes with an absolute commander and he’ll be dangerous to anyone or anything that crosses him.”
“No one is proof against a bullet,” said O’Brien.
“That is exactly what I mean,” said London. “You and I are mortal.”
O’Brien’s eyes widened.
“One way thinking is dangerous,” said London. “If Movius found out any of the basic elements of our plans—say he discovered that Cecelia Lang deliberately vamped The Coor to get Movius low-opped . . .” He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, a sound surprisingly like that of a fap-gun.
“Who’d do his dirty work?”
“Movius is the kind to do his own dirty work.”
“The things which make him ideal for our purposes also make him extremely dangerous to us,” said O’Brien. He rubbed a greying temple, sat down across from London. “I guess we anticipated that. Nothing to do but look sharp and do away with him once he’s served his purpose.”
“Afraid so,” said London. “We wouldn’t dare let him assume control of the government. I’ll alert the others. Any one of us may be called upon to put him out of the way.”
“It would be criminal to see our groundwork wasted,” said O’Brien. “I presume Grace got across to him the great mystery of it all.”
London leaned back in his chair, tipped his head down. “I’m not certain that was such a good idea. Grace was followed, had to lead them clear out of Lascadou before she could shake them.”
“Movius does have the idea he’s an important figure, though?” asked O’Brien.
“As far as I can see, he has always had that idea.”
O’Brien shook his head. “The reports would indicate that he has not been extremely ego-conscious. This business of leading him through the tunnels, mysterious organization, the sudden attention, all of these things are designed to . . .”
“That’s another thing,” said London. “Navvy and Movius almost got knocked off on the way in tonight. Someone spotted Movius with Clancy and they blanketed the Richmond and Riverside Warrenates. They tortured the information out of Clancy, but he didn’t know much.”
“What happened?” asked O’Brien.
“Three of The Coor’s hoods picked them up coming out of a sewer service dome. Navvy said Movius is an unexpectedly deadly man in a fight or they’d have been done for. Navvy could hardly get Movius away. He stopped and took a shot at Addington.”
“Addington? What was he doing . . .”
“After they picked up Clancy, Addington came down to supervise the . . . uh, interrogation himself. Clancy only knew Navvy and Movius were meeting two of our men near that service dome.”
“I presume they dropped Clancy in the river?”
“Yes.”
O’Brien pulled a stylus from his pocket, scratched the palm of his hand with it. “We’re pretty ruthless and callous ourselves, Quilliam.”
“In a good cause.”
“And we are the judges of how much worth our cause has,” said O’Brien. He put the stylus back in his pocket, looked up at the other chart on the wall, his eyes traveling down over the multi-colored lines. “We’re going to have a bad time. Crisis is near. Maybe two months, maybe less.”
“About the time of The Coor’s Fall poll,” said London.
“Anything else on your mind, Quilliam? It’s been a long day.”
London rested his bony elbows on the table. “Guarding Movius when he goes out to answer the Bu-Trans work order.”
“I’ve been thinking about that, too,” said O’Brien. “The Bu-Trans starting clerk is a man named Bailey. He has a sister who . . .”
Chapter 7
Movius awoke with the sure knowledge that someone was coming along the tunnel, a slow rustle of movement. The luminous dial on his watch showed five minutes to seven. He scooped up the gun from the floor beside his cot, slipped from the cot, tip-toed to the light switch, waited. He heard the curtain open, clicked the switch. The wide, staring eyes of Janus Peterson, the Bu-Trans driver he had met the night before, stared back at him. The big man’s barrel-shaped body just fitted through the narrow doorway.
“Ready for business, ain’t you?” said Peterson, looking at the gun. The man’s eyes began their rapid blinking. “Sure are ready.” In Peterson’s husky voice it was a flat statement, much as a man might say “Not today.”
Movius returned to the cot, tossed the gun onto it while he dressed. “Sorry. I couldn’t know who it was. I just woke up.”
Peterson and another man began bringing in boxes. “Your stuff,” said
Peterson. “Had to cart it out through the garbage disposal tube.” He placed a box on the floor. “Great Gallup! What a stench!” His glance went to the gun on the cot. “Guy you took that off of died. Two more of The Coor’s boys in the hospital, a Bu-Con bull’s there, too, with a hole in his side.” He grinned at Movius, the action giving his face a mask-like appearance. “Must’ve been some night!”
The LP grapevine, thought Movius. He said, “Do they know who did it?”
“They didn’t recognize who was with you, but they must’ve spotted you. They’re hopping mad and looking all over for you.”
“What’s the order?”
“I hear it’s shoot on sight,” said Peterson.
That does it, thought Movius. If it’s a war they want, they’ll get one. Damn them! He said, “We’re going to need recruits, Mr. Peterson. Know of any?”
“Might; might not.”
That’s logical, thought Movius. How does he know he can trust me?
“You could try remembering when the time comes,” said Movius.
“Might; might not.”
Movius smiled. “Thanks.”
“I figure you’re welcome.” Peterson turned, slipped out.
A good man, thought Movius. He’s going to come in handy.
Quilliam London brought Movius his breakfast. The old man lowered himself to a box, scratched his chin with a thumb. “They’re already looking for you.”
Movius took his plate, sat on the cot. “Bu-Con?”
“No. Some organization we don’t recognize. Nobody knows who the men are.”
Movius thought about the efficiency of the LP grapevine, put the plate aside. “Nobody?”
London nodded. “We think it’s some special squad The Coor has imported. They’re not hunting for you by name. They’re just around asking if anyone answering your description has been seen. Some of them have pictures.”
“Has my order to the ALP gone out?”
“On the morning round-up. It’ll be in the District Circulars by tonight.”
“If The Coor’s special squad . . .”
“You’re worried about answering the Bu-Trans order if and when it comes out.” London narrowed his eyes. “If you were married right away . . .”
Movius had picked up his plate, started to resume eating. He looked up sharply. “How’s that?”
“You come out of hiding with a wife.”
“What good would that do me?”
London bent forward, stood up slowly, stiffly. “You could claim your nuptial off-time. If they dared bring up the ALP thing, you could say you weren’t very attentive right after being married. The worst Bu-Con magistrate in the city wouldn’t dare say anything after that, especially with you reporting for legal orders.”
“I’m not worried about the magistrates.”
“There’s another aspect to it: Glass might pass you by if you were married—out of the running, so to speak.”
“Even after I killed one of his bully boys, maimed two others and shot a Bu-Con operative?” Movius put his plate on a box, got to his feet.
London looked toward the door. “They can’t prove it was you.” He turned back. “We’ll fix you up with an alibi.”
Movius shook his head. “It’s no good. If The Coor wants me badly enough, he’ll go on trying until he gets me . . . or until I get him.”
“Glass isn’t the only big man in the government,” said London.
“Are you referring to that pipsqueak O’Brien?”
London put a hand over his mouth, removed it. “No, I was referring to Warren Gerard.”
“That CR-14 thing?”
“Yes. Glass is afraid of Gerard. If you can get Gerard to back you, The Coor may call off his dogs.”
Movius looked skeptical. “He may not, too.”
“That’s the chance we take.”
The blood flushed into Movius’ face. “You mean that’s the chance I take!”
“Of course, of course,” said London. “But Gerard does have a big organization.”
“Why would he want to protect me?”
“He needs you.”
Movius’ voice showed scorn. “Like he needs an extra car and driver.”
London ignored the bitter tone. “The Coor and Gerard are about ready for a showdown on the CR-14 issue and The Coor holds the edge right now. Gerard needs help.”
“And you think I fit Gerard’s requirements?”
“I know you do. I’ve seen your Sorter card. There’s a deviation of .00001 from the requirements and they were tough.” London pursed his lips. “High loyalty index, resourcefulness, adaptability, knowledge of the government, no attachments to anyone high in the government . . .”
“Why couldn’t I stay in hiding, organize from here?” Movius walked to the corner of the room and back. “That seems the most logical . . .”
“It’s not.” London faced him from the doorway. “If Glass succeeds in taking over Bu-Trans, he’ll have the strength to capture every other department of the government. Our enemy will no longer be divided and they will crack down on the Seps all over the world.”
“So I have to save Gerard’s neck to save our necks, is that it?”
“That’s it. We need a divided government. We need the time to gain strength.”
“Even so . . .”
“This is the way things are,” said London.
“I meant about the wife,” said Movius. “Is that necessary?”
“I believe so. You have to present a good front to Gerard.”
Movius shrugged. “Well, where do I find a wife?”
“We thought you might have some woman friend.”
Movius thought of his friends. A pack of averted faces! All except Phil Henry. He shook his head. “I know one man I think I could trust. The only woman friend I had is probably sleeping with The Coor right now.” He clenched his fists, thrust them into his pockets.
“Miss Lang?”
Movius stared at the wall. “Yes.”
“No others?”
“None I could trust.”
They were silent while Movius clenched and unclenched his fists until the muscles pained him. “Maybe there’s someone in your classes,” he said. “It doesn’t have to be a real marriage.”
“It has to be convincing, though,” said London. He lifted the curtain at the doorway, dropped it. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“We’ve another problem,” said Movius. “You know what Glass will do first. He’ll have my number called on the next minor opp. When I go out to register, his men will bottle off the area and comb it. If I don’t go out, they sentence me to penalty service the minute I show my face.”
“We thought of that,” said London. “One of the things we do this morning is make a rubber stamp of your thumbprint. Somebody we trust will report you in miles from here. We’ll scatter your registrations until they think you have wings.”
Movius paced across the room and back. “That should work.” He stopped, looked up at London. “I want to start organizing. We should put out an appeal for recruits, get cell meetings.”
London pointed to a stack of boxes against the back wall of the room. “There’s a duplicator in there somewhere. Grace knows how to operate it. You start drafting the appeal. I’ll send Grace down with our skunk and EMASI! plate.”
“Every Man A Separate Individual,” said Movius.
“You’ll make a good Separatist yet,” said London.
Movius shook his head. “You have it wrong. I’m already a Sep. I’ll do the making of Seps. Send Grace along.”
London’s eyes held an odd, speculative light. “I wonder if we made the right choice?” he said.
“Choice of what?”
“Nothing,” said London. “I was thinking out loud.”
Chapter 8
O’Brien stared at the pigeons on the ledge, wishing they’d stop their senseless cooing and take off to wherever it was they went in the afternoons. Without turning, he said, “What’s h
e doing now?” He turned. “He’s had a week to get things moving.”
Quilliam London turned away from the multi-colored wall chart. “He’s back in his room with Janus Peterson and about a dozen others. He’s appointing cell chiefs. He’s named Janus . . .”
“Cells?” O’Brien glanced sharply at London. “I had no idea Movius read history.”
“His father taught it before it was low-opped.”
“Oh, yes. Slipped my mind for a moment. Of course he’d know history. I’m letting myself get too nervous. Must quiet down.” O’Brien tugged at his ear.
“He and Grace have put together a strong appeal for recruits,” said London. “It’s really a masterpiece. It picks up and magnifies every one of the little things you hear the LP’s griping about.”
O’Brien took his chair at the end of the table, sat down. “What about the marriage?”
London rubbed a finger against his cheek. “Grace is willing. She’ll be along in a . . .”
The door opened; Grace slipped in, sank into a chair beside her father. “He’s a slave driver,” she said. “But he certainly knows how to get things going.” She was breathing rapidly as though she had been running.
“We were just talking about the marriage idea,” said O’Brien. “It’d be a good thing to have a trusted operative such as yourself near him all the time. And a platonic alliance such as this wouldn’t . . .”
Grace stood up, went to the window and appeared to be watching the pigeons. She said, “I think . . .” broke off and put a hand to the glass in front of her.
“Not backing out are you?” asked O’Brien.
She turned, looked from O’Brien to her father. “Father, I . . .”
London frowned. “Are you maybe getting to like him a little too much?”
“Of course not!” She turned back to the window.
“I was just asking,” said London. “After all, you have been seeing a great deal of him these past few days and the man is charming.”
“It’s just so cold-blooded,” said Grace, addressing the window.
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