“God?” asked Weintraub, with a smile.
“I apologize,” said Elsenbach shaking his head sadly. “The habits of a lifetime.”
Several hours later, Weintraub had read his orders and tried to comprehend their grand scope. He waited in a dimly lit corner of an expensive Jerman restaurant, sipping imported Pilsner and looking for his new partner. At last he saw her enter. He set down his glass of beer and rose from his seat. “Fräulein Kämmer, how nice you look this evening.”
“Gretchen. We will be working together and, under the circumstances, the ‘Fräulein’ can only waste the Party’s time.” She smiled.
“It is difficult, speaking to you not as the woman I love, but as a fellow Party member.”
“And, in addition, I am now your wife. Have you eaten?”
“Yes,” said Weintraub. “A late lunch.”
“And I have no hunger at all.”
“Well, then!” said Weintraub. “Let us leave this restaurant for a place more suitable. Mein schönes Fräulein, darf ich wagen / Meinen Arm und Geleit Ihr anzutragen?”
“Goethe?”
“Yes.”
“And Margarete’s reply? ‘I’m not your maid, nor am I fair / And for your arm I do not care.’ “
“But the Party insists!” said Weintraub.
“Yes,” said Gretchen, laughing, “for the Party!”
An hour later, while sipping wine, they discussed their related missions. They talked about the danger of being uncovered as Communist agents. As such, they would not be safe anywhere within Jerman Ostamerika, or in California which, though independent, was on strong economic and political terms with Jermany. Safety was possible only in the huge and sparsely settled Western Territories, which began abruptly on the farther bank of the Mississippi.
“So,” said Gretchen, “we two are the conspiracy.”
“Yes,” said Weintraub. “A great responsibility. What faith the Party must have in us.”
“I am certain that Herr Elsenbach knows what he is doing.”
“Perhaps. But organizing such a widespread and pervasive operation is much more complex than, say, running weekly meetings for the hoodlums of Frachtdorf.”
“Naja, you undervalue yourself.”
“I don’t know. The job is so large. And so is yours.”
“I must corrode the moral fiber of the American youth.”
“By yourself, Gretchen? How will you do it?”
She laughed. “I have a notebook,” she said brightly. “I have been thinking for months, making little notes to myself. I will get the young people to believe that sexual freedom is a natural and God-given right. The youth of these States will listen less and less to the advice of their elders, preferring instead the promptings of their own baser selves.”
“Surely that will not be difficult. Young people think along those lines every generation. That will not be enough in itself to corrode their moral fiber.”
“No. But I will cause to be published articles encouraging the American youth to be shallow. That was Herr Elsenbach’s inspiration. He has been a great help. You know that he studied in various universities in the Soviet Union.”
Weintraub nodded. “He has been a tireless counsel,” he said.
“Well,” said Gretchen, “having thus succeeded with the articles, I will replace the American youths’ natural interest in religion with lustful desires for sex, drugs, alcohol, crime, and rebellion against authority.”
“That sounds like a good beginning, Gretchen.”
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“You are a good Party member.”
“I have had good instructors. These ideas are well-established practices, of course. We rely on the young people’s lack of discipline to be our ally. I have been thinking this through rather thoroughly. First, I will attempt to isolate a few frustrated and warped youths and teach them the skills of revolution. Then, by tricky means I will fool the non-Communist sympathizers to support what are in reality Communist movements. Those that cannot be so deluded I shall weaken with access to drugs and ‘free love,’ so they will be helpless to defend themselves.”
“Yes, of course. That is much the same idea that I was required to follow in Frachtdorf.”
“I will need time, for this is a much larger operation. I will have Bible readings banned in public and governmental conclaves, under the guise of protection of religious freedom. I will encourage sexual liberties, including homosexuality, at the same time flooding the book stalls with pornography.”
“I can feel the fiber going already,” said Weintraub, laughing.
“Most importantly, I will attempt to have the penalties removed for exercising these new ‘freedoms.’ When the attitude becomes one of ‘Why not?’ my mission will have been accomplished.”
“You have an excellent schedule, Gretchen. I only wish that my own orders gave me such detailed plans.”
“What exactly is your assignment?”
Weintraub frowned. “My work is in aid of yours, a necessary complement to your task. I am to infiltrate and render helpless the spiritual defenses of Ostamerika.”
“A difficult job, indeed. I will be unsuccessful if you do not manage it.”
“Yes, in many respects our work overlaps.” He illustrated on the tablecloth, drawing circles with his fingertip. He accidentally touched her hand, and pulled his own back quickly. He could hear her sharply indrawn breath.
“Our relationship has not changed,” she said in a low voice. “The context of our affection has been greatly altered. Rather than friend and companion, I am now your Party chief. Nevertheless, though it goes against Party principles, I will always love you.”
Weintraub smiled, and the fear that he felt toward his duties was submerged in a warm rush of happiness.
CHAPTER 8
Ernest awoke slowly. He felt sick. He hadn’t had nearly enough sleep, and his body hadn’t quite finished the chore of flushing the alcohol from his system. He got out of bed and went to the louvered window. It was a dark, drizzly day; the air smelled bad, again. He went over to the radio and switched it on, but there was nothing but static. Naturally; no one was going to sacrifice his token in order to provide early morning music and chatter. Ernest turned off the radio and rubbed his bleary eyes. It was a rotten day already.
He went into the bathroom and relieved himself. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror. He looked as terrible as he felt. “Might as well never mind,” he muttered. “Anybody that looks as lousy as that, doesn’t deserve a token.” He went back into the kitchen area and made himself a small breakfast. He ate it slowly and then got dressed. He was in no hurry to go downstairs.
“Gretchen?” he called. He hadn’t seen her yet.
“What?”
“Where are you?”
“What do you mean, where am I? I’m in the nursery with Stevie. If it was up to you, the baby’d starve to death or something. You never even think about him. I know you hate me, but I can’t understand why you hate Stevie. He’s never done anything to you.”
Ernest frowned. “That point is debatable,” he thought. “And I don’t hate him. You can’t hate your own son, can you?”
“Are you ready to go?” she asked.
“Yeah, put your clothes on.”
“Ernie, I’m not coming.”
“If you don’t come with me, you’re going to die.”
“No, I won’t. Tell them at the station. Tell them I’m pregnant. They’ll give you a token for me. They have to.”
“All right. See you.”
That was that, Ernest knew. Their relationship, the marriage, the baby, everything. Gretchen had locked herself and little Stevie in the nursery area, and nothing that he had said had shaken her wall of fear. Well, then, he’d get his token. Maybe this was the best way.
His own fear was lessened by a confusion of other emotions. He knew that he was not going to die: he’d get a token one way or another. But his wife, and his son. … There wa
s just too much to accept all at once, and he shunted the uncomfortable thoughts away for a while, preferring to deal with the here-and-now problem of getting his token.
He slammed the modapt’s door loudly, but he didn’t hurry down the dim hall to the elevator. He just stood there for a few seconds, listening. There were none of the usual noises from the other modapts on the floor. Everyone was already out, scrambling in his own best interests. He put his ear against his own door; he heard Stevie begin to cry, no doubt because Gretchen was picking him up and “soothing” him again. Well, he wouldn’t have to put up with that much longer. It was hardly a consolation. He went over to Vladieki’s door. Ernest could hear taped music being played. He listened carefully and heard a high-pitched woman’s voice singing. “Kansas she says is the name of the star.” The idea of the old man sitting so calmly in his modapt angered Ernest. He spat at the door and walked toward the elevator.
“Well,” he thought as he rode down in the creaking car, “it’s time to put aside all the childish feelings. It’s time to face the situation like an adult. It’s very simple, really. It’s just me against them. And I’ve always been good at getting what I want, especially when I don’t have to worry about courtesy.”
It didn’t work. He was still afraid. He wanted to hide, like Gretchen. He wanted to pretend that it might all go away. The only reason that he managed to motivate himself was that, deep inside, he really hadn’t accepted the enormity of the situation.
He was still trying to figure the best search method when he reached the street. In a city the size of New York, there must be dozens of stations. Where? Follow the mob. Just find an angry crowd and get to the head of the line. No problem there, thought Ernest, nodding to himself. Just find a station.
And now, of course, the same thought occupied every one of the other thirty million residents of the city. His own street, normally a mildly busy thoroughfare, was jammed with shouting, milling people. “Well,” thought Ernest, “that’s service. There must be a station set up on the corner.”
He watched the thick mass of people surging by him. “I wonder,” he thought, “is it worth getting myself crushed in that crowd just to save my life? Is it worth getting all frustrated and angry, lowering myself to their level, pushing and shoving with all the rest, fighting like a common animal, just to stay alive?” He smiled ruefully. “It always comes to the simple question: what is more important, life or self-respect? Well, here goes.” He left the shelter of the building and plunged into the crowd.
For a few moments, he had no idea of what was happening; he was lost in a shifting maze of people, like a single pea in a bag of beans. His half-formed plans were proven pointless immediately; Ernest could move only in the direction and at the speed of the current. He was entirely in the crowd’s grasp, and that suited him, for the time being. He had no better idea of what to do, and it was vaguely possible that the people around him did.
“How easily this could be a carnival,” he thought. “Instead of a great big funeral. All I can see are the backs of about five people. My world has been reduced to this. Who knows what’s up ahead? It may be Mardi Gras, for all I know. There may be a funny parade on Fulton Street, with floats and marching bands and costumed riders. And maybe they’re throwing tokens from the floats, along with strings of plastic beads, and only our innate ideas of honor, our mature sense of fair play, prevent everyone from rushing the Representative’s masked subordinates. The population of the world is waiting patiently on the curb for some henchman to toss a few tokens into the crowd. How much more fun that would be. They never run these things right.”
It took him about half an hour to shove his way through the people to the corner, a distance of sixty yards. He had to fight all the way, and every foot he gained was at the expense of a great deal of pounding and cursing from the others. He began to hit back, slapping and throwing people out of the way, ignoring them as individuals. Ernest cleared a path for himself with a spirit of the community of all men: now, even more than usual, none of them were his brothers; the sense and humor of the mob treated him and all the rest impartially.
Perhaps he could organize everyone. He could stand up on something and shout slogans until he had attracted enough attention. Then he could begin some rambling speech, hoping that the people around him would be so desperate for leadership they wouldn’t notice the absurdity of what he said. Once he had their support, he could march with them, moving the millions of other individuals aside with the strength of their union. Then Ernest and his followers would have an overwhelming advantage. But, of course, once his army realized its power, it would have little use for him. He might find himself quickly bloodied, lying beneath the aimless feet of friends and enemies alike. He would be a target, and soon these frantic people would begin looking for targets. Better to go on alone. He didn’t know what he’d say, in the first place.
He had a quick image of his father, struggling in a similar crowd, a few hundred miles away in Pennsylvania. It was easy to accept that he, Ernest, had to contend with the problem; he was young enough, still strong enough. But suddenly the Representatives’ scheme took on a particular though unpleasant wisdom. Ernest’s father was not old, still a couple of years short of sixty. But he would find himself at a terrible loss in a furious mob like this. The very old, the sick or injured, the very young would have no hope at all.
“Anyway,” thought Ernest, “those towns have populations numbering in the thousands, not millions. And if there isn’t a token station right in town, word of where there is one will spread fast. He ought to do all right.”
When he got to the corner of the street there was no sign of a token station. He looked up and down Fulton Street; it was filled, as packed with people as his street had been. There was no hope for public transportation; even cars and motorcycles were useless. And, most likely, there was no one to operate the subways. Where were these people going?
“There has to be a better way,” he thought. He realized that, under the circumstances, there was nothing to prevent him from indulging all his hostile instincts. He could simply kill everyone who stood in front of him; he would feel little remorse, and society itself would have nothing to say. He could just murder a swath for himself, until he met someone who, for the same reasons or in self-defense, killed Ernest first. The only real consideration stopping Ernest was that he didn’t know where he was going. “Maybe later,” he thought, trying to laugh.
While he stood staring down the street, he was hit sharply in the ribs and pushed. Only the density of the crowd itself prevented him from falling to his knees, where he easily might have been crushed or suffocated. He struck back angrily with his fist, and hit a young girl in the face. Ernest could not tell if she had been the one who had struck him; she seemed to collapse in her place, and Ernest caught her, supporting her while she recovered.
“Thanks,” she said, “I could have been trampled.” “I’m sorry I hit you in the first place. I don’t know. This whole thing is starting to get to me.”
“Did you hit me? Oh, never mind; it doesn’t make any difference.” She felt her swollen lip and tried to smile. “We’re not getting anywhere,” she said.
“Doesn’t look like it. Which way are we headed?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve been out since five this morning and I haven’t seen a hint of a token booth.”
“Maybe that’s their plan. Maybe they have them hidden where only the smart people would think to look. They don’t want a bunch of idiots coming out of those bunkers.”
“Maybe.”
Ernest looked at her closely. “The male sexual drive is supposed to fall off during moments of stress,” he thought. “It is comforting sometimes to know that I must be abnormal. Especially in a situation like this. Perpetual lust has got to be good for the human race.” She was just a bit shorter than Ernest, and very thin. She had very small hands, the first thing that he noticed about her. Her fingers looked like a child’s, though the nails
were painted with a cracked, silvery polish. Her hair was long and very black, though her eyebrows were a reddish brown. She had a bright red blush applied to her cheeks, and her lipstick was a dark wine color. Ernest wondered why she had gone to the trouble of dressing up for the disaster. “You’re very pretty, you know,” he said. She laughed bitterly. “Thanks,” she said.
“I know it doesn’t seem very important. It just made me feel good to say it.”
“Where are you from?”
“Here,” said Ernest. “Brooklyn.”
“No, I mean where were you born,” she said. “I’m sure you haven’t lived here your whole life.”
“I’m from a little town in Pennsylvania, near Oil City.”
“Ah,” she said with a mocking smile. “Oil City.”
“Yeah. It’s a nice place to be from.”
“I talked to my brother last night,” she said. “He’s a fuser over in Queens. You know, people in his building were actually coming to him, expecting that he had tokens to give them. Some people are really dumb, or else they just don’t listen very well. I guess they’re in for a real surprise today. How much time do we have?”
“What?”
“I said, how much time do we have? Will the stations close tonight? Do we have a week? How long before the disaster?”
“I don’t think they ever told us,” he said. Ernest pushed his way downtown, and the girl followed closely in his wake. They had to shout to make themselves understood.
“That figures. Have you seen anybody with a token?”
“No,” said Ernest. “But I don’t imagine that the people who get them will tell. They’ll try to hold the lines down for their own families and friends. Cut out the competition by playing cool. We’re just going to have to keep looking.”
“We could be passing the damn thing by and not even know it. It might be right across the street.”
Ernest shook his head. “No, probably not. There’s going to be a tremendous uproar around the token booths. I think you’ll have to be ready to fight your way to the front.”
Relatives Page 12