The Ninth Science Fiction Megapack

by Arthur C. Clarke

She hesitated. “I did,” she admitted. “It was—I’m sorry, Mr. Wills. It was an impulse. I shouldn’t have done it.”

  “What was it, Rena?”

  She shook her head. “I am sorry. It doesn’t matter. But I am a bad hostess; won’t you come in?”

  The room behind the door was long and narrow, with worn furniture and a door that led, perhaps, to another room behind. It seemed dusty and, hating myself as a snooping fool, I took careful note that there was a faint aroma of tobacco. I had been quite sure that she didn’t smoke, that evening we had met.

  She gestured at a chair—there only were two, both pulled up to a crude wooden table, on which were two poured cups of coffee. “Please sit down,” she invited.

  I reminded myself that it was, after all, none of my business if she chose to entertain friends—even friends who smoked particularly rancid tobacco. And if they preferred not to be around when I came to the door, why, that was their business, not mine. I said cautiously, “I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

  “Interrupt me?” She saw my eyes on the cups. “Oh—oh, no, Mr. Wills. That other cup is for you, you see. I poured it when Luisa told me you were at the gate. It isn’t very good, I’m afraid,” she said apologetically.

  I made an effort to sip the coffee; it was terrible. I set it down. “Rena, I just found out about your policies. Believe me, I’m sorry. I hadn’t known about it, when we had dinner together; I would have— Well, I don’t know what I would have done. There isn’t much I can do, truthfully; I don’t want you thinking I have any great power. But I wish I had known—I might not have made you cry, at any rate.”

  She smiled an odd sort of smile. “That wasn’t the reason, Mr. Wills.”

  “Please call me Tom. Well, then, why did you cry?”

  “It is of no importance. Please.”

  I coughed and tried a different tack. “You understand that I do have some authority. And I would like to help you if I can—if you’ll let me.”

  “Let you? How could I prevent it?”

  Her eyes were deep and dark. I shook myself and pulled the notes I’d made on her policies from my pocket. In the most official voice I could manage, I said, “You see, there may be some leeway in interpreting the facts. As it stands, frankly, there isn’t much hope. But if you’ll give me some information—”

  “Certainly.”

  “All right. Now, your father—Benedetto dell’Angela. He was a casualty of the war with Sicily; he got a dose of radiation, and he is at present in a low-metabolism state in the clinic at Anzio, waiting for the radiogens to clear out of his system. Is that correct?”

  “It is what the Company’s report said,” she answered.

  Her tone was odd. Surely she wasn’t doubting a Company report!

  “As his dependent, Rena, you applied for subsistence benefits on his Blue Blanket policies, as well as war-risk benefits under the Blue Bolt. Both applications were refused; the Blue Blanket because your father is technically not hospitalized; the Blue Bolt, as well as all your other personal policies, was cancelled, because of—” I stuttered over it—“of activities against the best interest of the Company. Specifically, giving aid and comfort to a known troublemaker whose name is given here as Slovetski.” I showed her the cancellation sheet I had stolen from the files.

  She shrugged. “This much I know, Tom,” she said.

  “Why?” I demanded. “This man is believed to have been instrumental in inciting the war with Sicily!”

  She flared, “Tom, that’s a lie! Slovetski is an old friend of my father’s—they studied together in Berlin, many years ago. He is utterly, completely against war—any war!”

  I hesitated. “Well, let’s put that aside. But you realize that, in view of this, the Company can maintain—quite properly in a technical sense—that you contributed to the war, and therefore you can’t collect Blue Bolt compensation for a war you helped bring about. You were warned, you see. You can’t even say that you didn’t know what you were doing.”

  “Tom,” Rena’s voice was infinitely patient and sad. “I knew what I was doing.”

  “In that case, Rena, you have to admit that it seems fair enough. Still, perhaps we can get something for you—even if only a refund of your premiums. The Company doesn’t always follow the letter of the law, there are always exceptions, so—”

  Her expression stopped me. She was smiling, but it was the tortured smile of Prometheus contemplating the cosmic jest that was ripping out his vitals.

  I asked uncertainly, “Don’t you believe me?”

  “Believe you, Tom? Indeed I do.” She laughed out loud that time. “After what happened to my father, I assure you, Tom, I am certain that the Company doesn’t always follow the law.”

  I shook my head quickly. “No, you don’t understand. I—”

  “I understand quite well.” She studied me for a moment, then patted my hand. “Let us talk of something else.”

  “Won’t you tell me why your policy was cancelled?”

  She said evenly, “It’s in the file. Because I was a bad girl.”

  “But why? Why—”

  “Because, Tom. Please, no more. I know you are trying to be just as helpful as you can, but there is no help you can give.”

  “You don’t make it easy, Rena.”

  “It can’t be easy! You see, I admit everything. I was warned. I helped an old friend whom the Company wanted to—shall we say—treat for radiation sickness? So there is no question that my policy can be cancelled. All legal. It is not the only one of its kind, you know. So why discuss it?”

  “Why shouldn’t we?”

  Her expression softened. “Because—because we do not agree. And never shall.”

  I stared at her blankly. She was being very difficult. Really, I shouldn’t be bothering with her, someone I barely knew, someone I hadn’t even heard of until—

  That reminded me. I said, “Rena, how did you know my name?”

  Her eyes went opaque. “Know your name, Tom? Why, Mr. Gogarty introduced us.”

  “No. You knew of me before that. Come clean, Rena. Please.”

  She said flatly, “I don’t know what you mean.” She was beginning to act agitated. I had seen her covertly glancing at her watch several times; now she held it up openly—ostentatiously, in fact. “I am sorry, but you’d better go,” she said with a hint of anxiety in her voice. “Please excuse me.”

  Well, there seemed no good reason to stay. So I went—not happily; not with any sense of accomplishment; and fully conscious of the figure I cut to the unseen watcher in the other room, the man whose coffee I had usurped.

  Because there was no longer a conjecture about whether there had been such a person or not. I had heard him sneeze three times.

  * * * *

  Back at my hotel, a red light was flashing on the phone as I let myself in. I unlocked the playback with my room key and got a recorded message that Gogarty wanted me to phone him at once.

  He answered the phone on the first ring, looking like the wrath of God. It took me a moment to recognize the symptoms; then it struck home.

  The lined gray face, the jittery twitching of the head, the slow, tortured movements; here was a man with a classic textbook case of his ailment. The evidence was medically conclusive. He had been building up to a fancy drinking party, and something made him stop in the middle.

  There were few tortures worse than a grade-A hangover, but one of those that qualified was the feeling of having the drink die slowly, going through the process of sobering up without the anesthetic of sleep.

  He winced as the scanning lights from the phone hit him. “Wills,” he said sourly. “About time. Listen, you’ve got to go up to Anzio. We’ve got a distinguished visitor, and he wants to talk to you.”

  “Me?”

  “You! He knows you—his name is Defoe.”

  The name crashed over me; I hadn’t expected that, of all things. He was a member of the Council of Underwriters! I thought they never venture
d far from the Home Office. In fact, I thought they never had a moment to spare from the awesome duties of running the Company.

  Gogarty explained. “He appeared out of nowhere at Carmody Field. I was still in Caserta! Just settling down to a couple of drinks with Susan, and they phoned me to say Chief Underwriter Defoe is on my doorstep!”

  I cut in, “What does he want?”

  Gogarty puffed his plump cheeks. “How do I know? He doesn’t like the way things are going, I guess. Well, I don’t like them either! But I’ve been twenty-six years with the Company, and if he thinks… Snooping and prying. There are going to be some changes in the office, I can tell you. Somebody’s been passing on all kinds of lying gossip and—” He broke off and stared at me calculatingly as an idea hit him.

  Then he shook his head. “No. Couldn’t be you, Wills, could it? You only got here, and Defoe’s obviously been getting this stuff for weeks. Maybe months. Still— Say, how did you come to know him?”

  It was none of his business. I said coldly, “At the Home Office. I guess I’ll take the morning plane up to Anzio, then.”

  “The hell you will. You’ll take the night train. It gets you there an hour earlier.” Gogarty jerked his head righteously—then winced and clutched his temple. He said miserably, “Oh, damn. Tom, I don’t like all of this. I think something happened to Hammond.”

  I repeated, “Happened? What could happen to him?”

  “I don’t know. But I found out a few things. He’s been seen with some mighty peculiar people in Caserta. What’s this about somebody with a gun waiting at the office for him when you were there?”

  It took a moment for me to figure out what he was talking about. “Oh,” I said, “you mean the man at the car? I didn’t know he had a gun, for certain.”

  “I do,” Gogarty said shortly. “The expediters tried to pick him up today, to question him about Hammond. He shot his way out.”

  I told Gogarty what I knew, although it wasn’t much. He listened abstractedly and, when I had finished, he sighed. “Well, that’s no help,” he grumbled. “Better get ready to catch your train.”

  I nodded and reached to cut off the connection. He waved half-heartedly. “Oh, yes,” he added, “give my regards to Susan if you see her.”

  “Isn’t she here?”

  He grimaced. “Your friend Defoe said he needed a secretary. He requisitioned her.”

  * * * *

  I boarded the Anzio train from the same platform where I had seen Zorchi dive under the wheels. But this was no sleek express; it was an ancient three-car string that could not have been less than fifty years out of date. The cars were not even air-conditioned.

  Sleep was next to impossible, so I struck up a conversation with an expediter-officer. He was stand-offish at first but, when he found out I was a Claims Adjuster, he mellowed and produced some interesting information.

  It was reasonable that Defoe would put aside his other duties and make a quick visit to Anzio, because Anzio seemed to need someone to do something about it pretty badly. My officer was part of a new levy being sent up there; the garrison was being doubled; there had been trouble. He was vague about what kind of “trouble” it had been, but it sounded like mob violence. I mentioned Caserta and the near-riot I had been in; the officer’s eyes hooded over, and about five minutes after that he pointedly leaned back and pulled his hat over his eyes. Evidently it was not good form to discuss actual riots.

  I accepted the rebuke, but I was puzzled in my mind as I tried to get some sleep for myself.

  What kind of a place was this Naples, where mobs rioted against the Company and even intelligent-seeming persons like Renata dell’Angela appeared to have some reservations about it?

  CHAPTER V

  I slept, more or less, for an hour or so in that cramped coach seat. I was half asleep when the train-expediter nudged my elbow and said, “Anzio.”

  It was early—barely past daybreak. It was much too early to find a cab. I got directions from a drowsing stationmaster and walked toward the vaults.

  The “clinic,” as the official term went, was buried in the feet of the hills just beyond the beaches. I was astonished at the size of it. Not because it was so large; on the contrary. It was, as far as I could see, only a broad, low shed.

  Then it occurred to me that the vaults were necessarily almost entirely underground, for the sake of economy in keeping them down to the optimum suspendee temperature. It was safe enough and simple enough to put a man in suspended animation but, as I understood it, it was necessary to be sure that the suspendees never got much above fifty degrees temperature for any length of time. Above that, they had an unwelcome tendency to decay.

  This was, I realized, the first full-scale “clinic” I had ever seen. I had known that the Company had hundreds, perhaps thousands, of them scattered all over the world.

  I had heard that the Company had enough of them, mostly in out-of-the-way locations, to deep-freeze the entire human race at once, though that seemed hardly reasonable.

  I had even heard some ugly, never-quite-made-clear stories about why the Company had so many clinics…but when people began hinting at such ridiculous unpleasantness, I felt it was my duty to make it clear that I wanted to hear no subversive talk. So I had never got the details—and certainly would never have believed them for a moment if I had.

  * * * *

  It was very early in the morning, as I say, but it seemed that I was not the first to arrive at the clinic. On the sparse grass before the main entrance, half a dozen knots of men and women were standing around apathetically. Some of them glared at me as I came near them, for reasons I did not understand; others merely stared.

  I heard a hoarse whisper as I passed one group of middle-aged women. One of them was saying, “Benedetto non é morte.” She seemed to be directing it to me; but it meant nothing. The only comment that came to my somewhat weary mind was, “So what if Benedetto isn’t dead?”

  A huge armed expediter, yawning and scratching, let me in to the executive office. I explained that I had been sent for by Mr. Defoe. I had to wait until Mr. Defoe was ready to receive me and was finally conducted to a suite of rooms.

  This might have once been an authentic clinic; it had the aseptic appearance of a depressing hospital room. One for, say, Class-Cs with terminal myasthenia. Now, though, it had been refitted as a private guest suite, with an attempt at luxurious drapes and deep stuffed armchairs superimposed on the basic adjustable beds and stainless steel plumbing.

  I hadn’t seen Defoe in some time, but he hadn’t changed at all. He was, as always, the perfect model of a Company executive of general-officer rank. He was formal, but not unyielding. He was tall, distinguished-gray at the temples, spare, immaculately outfitted in the traditional vest and bow tie.

  I recalled our first meeting. He was from the side of Marianna’s family that she talked about, and she fluttered around for three whole days, checking our Blue Plate policies for every last exotic dish we could squeeze out to offer him, planning the television programs allowed under our entertainment policies, selecting the most respectable of our friends—“acquaintances” would be a better description; Marianna didn’t make friends easily—to make up a dinner party. He’d arrived at the stroke of the hour he was due, and had brought with him what was undoubtedly his idea of a princely gift for newlyweds—a paid-up extra-coverage maternity benefit rider on our Blue Blanket policies.

  We thanked him effusively. And, for my part, sincerely. That was before I had known Marianna’s views on children; she had no intentions of raising a family.

  * * * *

  As I walked in on Defoe in his private suite at the clinic, he was standing with his back to me, at a small washstand, peering at his reflection in a mirror. He appeared to have finished shaving. I rubbed my own bristled chin uneasily.

  He said over his shoulder, “Good morning, Thomas. Sit down.”

  I sat on the edge of an enormous wing chair. He pursed his lips, stretched
the skin under his chin and, when he seemed perfectly satisfied the job was complete, he said as though he were continuing a conversation, “Fill me in on your interview with Zorchi, Thomas.”

  It was the first I’d known he’d ever heard of Zorchi. I hesitantly began to tell him about the meeting in the hospital. It did not, I knew, do me very much credit, but it simply didn’t occur to me to try to make my own part look better. I suppose that if I thought of the matter at all, I simply thought that Defoe would instantly detect any attempt to gloss things over. He hardly seemed to be paying attention to me, though; he was preoccupied with the remainder of his morning ritual—carefully massaging his face with something fragrant, brushing his teeth with a maddening, old-fashioned insistence on careful strokes, combing his hair almost strand by strand.

  Then he took a small bottle with a daub attached to the stopper and touched it to the distinguished gray at his temples.

  I spluttered in the middle of a word; I had never thought of the possibility that the handsomely grayed temples of the Company’s senior executives, as inevitable as the vest or the watch chain, were equally a part of the uniform! Defoe gave me a long inquiring look in the mirror; I coughed and went on with a careful description of Zorchi’s temper tantrum.

  Defoe turned to me and nodded gravely. There was neither approval nor disapproval. He had asked for information and the information had been received.

  He pressed a communicator button and ordered breakfast. The microphone must have been there, but it was invisible. He sat down at a small, surgical-looking table, leaned back and folded his hands.

  “Now,” he said, “tell me what happened in Caserta just before Hammond disappeared.”

  Talking to Defoe had something of the quality of shouting down a well. I collected my thoughts and told him all I knew on the riot at the branch office.

  While I was talking, Defoe’s breakfast arrived. He didn’t know I hadn’t eaten anything, of course—I say “of course” because I know he couldn’t have known, he didn’t ask. I looked at it longingly, but all my looking didn’t alter the fact that there was only one plate, one cup, one set of silverware.