Lee turned on the big Hawthorne Electric set with a wave of her hand; imbecillic music filled the air and Oliver grunted and settled down.
Lee and Charles listened, fingers entwined, to half an hour of slushy ballads while Oliver worked. The news period announcer came on with some anesthetic trial verdicts, sports results and society notes about which Regan had gone where. Then—
“The local Mobsters of Michigan City, Indiana, today welcomed Maurice Regan to their town. Mr. Regan will assume direction of efforts to apprehend the two European savages who murdered James Regan IV last month aboard the ore boat Hon. John Regan in waters off Michigan City. You probably remember that the Europeans did some damage to the vessel’s reactor room before they fled from the ship. How they boarded the ship and their present whereabouts are mysteries—but they probably won’t be mysteries long. Maurice Regan is little-known to the public, but he has built an enviable record in the administration of the Chicago Police Department. Mr. Regan on taking charge of the case, said this: ‘We know by traces found on the Dunes that they got away. We know from the logs of highway patrols that they didn’t get out of the Michigan City area. The only way to close the books on this matter fast is to cover the city with a fine-tooth comb. Naturally and unfortunately this will mean inconvenience to many citizens. I hope they will bear with the inconveniences gladly for the sake of confining those two savages in a place where they can no longer be a menace. I have methods of my own and there may be complaints. Reasonable suggestions will be needed, but with crackpots I have no patience.’”
The radio began to spew more sports results. Oliver turned and waved at it to be silent. “I don’t like that,” he whispered. “I never heard of this Regan in the Chicago Police.”
“They said he wasn’t in the public eye.”
“I wasn’t the public. I did some posters for the police and I knew who was who. And that bit at the end. I’ve heard things like it before. The Mob doesn’t often admit it’s in the wrong, you know. When they try to disarm criticism in advance… this Regan must be a rough fellow.”
Charles and Lee Falcaro looked at each other in sudden fear. “We don’t want to hurry you, Ken,” she said. “But it looks as though you’d better do a rush job.”
Nodding, Oliver bent over the table. “Maybe a week,” he said hopefully. With the finest pen he traced the curlicues an engraving lathe had evolved to make the passes foolproof. Odd, he thought—the lives of these two hanging by such a weak thing as the twisted thread of color that feeds from pen to paper. And, as an afterthought—I suppose mine does too.
* * * *
Oliver came back the next day to work with concentrated fury, barely stopping to eat and not stopping to talk. Lee got it out of him, but not easily. After being trapped in a half dozen contradictions about feeling well and having a headache, about his throat being sore and the pain having gone, he put down his pen and whispered steadily: “I didn’t want you to worry friends. But it looks bad. There is a new crowd in town. Twenty couples have been pulled in by them—couples to prove who they were. Maybe fifty people have been pulled in for questioning—what do you know about this, what do you know about that. And they’ve begun house searches. Anybody you don’t like, you tell the new Regan about him. Say he’s sheltering Europeans. And his people pull them in. Why, everybody wants to know, are they pulling in couples who are obviously American if they’re looking for Europeans? And, everybody says, they’ve never seen anything like it. Now—I think I’d better get back to work.”
“Yes,” Lee said. “I think you had.”
Charles was at the window, peering around the drawn blind. “Look at that,” he said to Lee. She came over. A big man on the street below was walking, very methodically down the street.
“I will bet you,” Charles said, “that he’ll be back this way in ten minutes or so—and so on through the night.”
“I won’t take the bet,” she said. “He’s a sentry, all right. The Mob’s learning from their friends across the water. Learning too damned much. They must be all over town.”
They watched at the window and the sentry was back in ten minutes. On his fifth tour he stopped a young couple going down the street studied their faces, drew a gun on them and blew a whistle. A patrol came and took them away; the girl was hysterical. At two in the morning, the sentry was relieved by another, just as big and just as dangerous looking. At two in the morning they were still watching and Oliver was still hunched over the table tracing exquisite filigree of color.
* * * *
In five days, virtually without sleep, Oliver finished two Michigan City-Buffalo travel permits. The apartment house next door was hit by raiders while the ink dried; Charles and Lee Falcaro stood waiting grotesquely armed with kitchen knives. But it must have been a tip rather than part of the search plan crawling nearer to their end of town. The raiders did not hit their building.
Oliver had bought clothes according to Lee’s instructions—including two men’s suits, Oliver’s size. One she let out for Charles; the other she took in for herself. She instructed Charles minutely in how he was to behave, on the outside. First he roared with incredulous laughter; Lee, wise, in psychology assured him that she was perfectly serious. Oliver, puzzled by his naivete, assured him that such things were not uncommon—not at least in Mob Territory. Charles then roared with indignation and Lee roared him down. His last broken protest was: “But what’ll I do if somebody takes me up on it?”
She shrugged, washing her hands of the matter, and went on trimming and dying her hair.
It was morning when she kissed Oliver good-bye, said to Charles: “See you at the station. Don’t say good-bye,” and walked from the apartment, a dark-haired boy with a slight limp. Charles watched her down the street. A cop turned to look after her and then went on his way.
Half an hour later Charles shook hands with Oliver and went out.
Oliver didn’t go to work that day. He sat all day at the table, drawing endless slow sketches of Lee Falcaro’s head.
Time the Great Kidder, he thought. He opens the door that shows you in the next room tables of goodies, colorful and tasty, men and women around the tables pleasantly surprised to see you, beckoning to you to join the feast. We have roast beef if you’re serious, we have caviar if you’re experimental, we have baked alaska if you’re frivolous—join the feast; try a little bit of everything. So you start toward the door.
Time, the Great Kidder, pulls the rug from under your feet and slams the door while the guests at the feast laugh their heads off at your painful but superficial injuries.
Oliver slowly drew Lee’s head for the fifteenth time and wished he dared to turn on the audio for the news. Perhaps he thought, the next voice you hear will be the cops at the door.
CHAPTER XXI
Charles walked down the street and ran immediately into a challenge from a police sergeant.
“Where you from, mister?” the cop demanded, balanced and ready to draw.
Charles gulped and let Lee Falcaro’s drilling take over. “Oh, around, sergeant. I’m from around here.”
“What’re you so nervous about?”
“Why, sergeant, you’re such an exciting type, really. Did anybody ever tell you you look well in uniform?”
The cop glared at him and said: “If I wasn’t in uniform, I’d hang one on you sister. And if the force wasn’t all out hunting the lunatics, that killed Mr. Regan I’d pull you in for spitting on the sidewalk. Get to hell off my beat and stay off. I’m not forgetting your face.”
Charles scurried on. It had worked.
It worked once more with a uniformed policeman. One of the Chicago plain-clothes imports was the third and last. He socked Charles in the jaw and sent him on his way with a kick in the rear. He had been thoroughly warned that it would probably happen: “Count on them to over-react. That’s the key to it. You’ll make them so eager
to assert their own virility, that it’ll temporarily bury their primary mission. It’s quite likely that one or more pokes will be taken at you. All you can do is take them. If you get—when you get through, they’ll be cheap at the price.”
The sock in the jaw hadn’t been very expert. The kick in the pants was negligible, considering the fact that it had propelled him through the gate of the Michigan City Transport Terminal.
By the big terminal clock the Chicago-Buffalo Express was due in fifteen minutes. Its gleaming single rail, as tall as a man crossed the far end of the concourse. Most of the fifty-odd people in the station were probably Buffalo-bound… safe geldings who could be trusted to visit Syndic Territory, off the leash and return obediently. Well-dressed, of course, and many past middle-age, with a stake in the Mob Territory stronger than hope of freedom. One youngster, though—oh. It was Lee, leaning, slack-jawed, against a pillar and reading the Green Sheet.
Who were the cops in the crowd? The thickset man with restless eyes, of course. The saintly-looking guy who kept moving and glancing into faces.
Charles went to the newsstand and put a coin in the slot for The Mob—A Short History, by the same Arrowsmith Hunde who had brightened and misinformed his youth.
Nothing to it, he thought. Train comes in, put your money in the turnstile, show your permit to the turnstile’s eye, get aboard and that-is-that. Unless the money is phony, or the pass is phony in which case the turnstile locks and all hell breaks loose. His money was just dandy, but the permit now—there hadn’t been any way to test it against a turnstile’s template, or time to do it if there had been a way. Was the probability of boarding two to one?
The probability abruptly dropped to zero as a round little man flanked by two huge men entered the station.
Commander Grinnel.
The picture puzzle fell into a whole as the two plainclothesmen circulating in the station eyed Grinnel and nodded to him. The big one absent-mindedly made a gesture that was the start of a police salute.
Grinnel was Maurice Regan—the Maurice Regan mysteriously unknown to Oliver, who knew the Chicago police. Grinnel was a bit of a lend-lease from the North American Navy, called in because of his unique knowledge of Charles Orsino and Lee Falcaro, their faces, voices and behavior. Grinnel was the expert in combing the city without any nonsense about rights and mouthpieces. Grinnel was the expert who could set up a military interior guard of the city. Grinnel was the specialist temporarily invested with the rank of a Regan so he could do his job.
The round little man with the halo of hair walked briskly to the turnstile and there stood at a military parade rest with a look of resignation on his face.
How hard on me it is, he seemed to be saying, that I have such dull damn duty. How hard that an officer of my brilliance must do sentry-go for every train to Syndic Territory.
The slack-jawed youth who was Lee Falcaro looked at him over her Green Sheet and nodded before dipping into the Tia Juana past performances again. She knew.
Passengers were beginning to line up at the turnstile, smoothing out their money and fiddling with their permits. In a minute he and Lee Falcaro would have to join the line or stand conspicuously on the emptying floor. The thing was dead for twenty-four hours now, until the next train—and then Grinnel headed across the floor looking very impersonal. The look of a man going to the men’s room. The station cops and Grinnel’s two bruisers drifted together at the turnstile and began to chat.
Charles followed Grinnel, wearing the same impersonal look, and entered the room almost on his heels.
Grinnel saw him in a wash-bowl mirror; simultaneously he half turned, opened his mouth to yell and whipped his hand into his coat. A single round-house right from Charles crunched into the soft side of his neck. He fell with his head twisted at an odd angle. Blood began to run from the corner of his mouth onto his shirt.
“Remember Martha?” Charles whispered down at the body. “That was for murder.” He looked around the tiled room. There was a mop closet with the door ajar, and Grinnel’s flabby body fitted in it.
Charles walked from the washroom to the line of passengers across the floor. It seemed to go on for miles. Lee Falcaro was no longer lounging against the past. He spotted her in line, still slack-jawed, still gaping over the magazine. The monorail began to sing shrilly with the vibration of the train braking a mile away, and the turnstile “unlocked” light went on.
There was the usual number of fumblers, the usual number of “please unfold your currency” flashes. Lee carried through to the end with her slovenly pose. For her the sign said: “incorrect denominations.” Behind her a man snarled: “for Christ’s sake, kid, we’re all waiting on you!” The cops only half noticed; they were talking. When Charles got to the turnstile one of the cops was saying: “Maybe it’s something he ate. How’d you like somebody to barge in—”
The rest was lost in the clicking of the turnstile that let him through.
* * * *
He settled in a very pneumatic chair as the train accelerated evenly to a speed of three hundred and fifty miles per hour. A sign in the car said that the next stop was Buffalo. And there was Lee, lurching up the aisle against the acceleration. She spotted him, tossed the Green Sheet in the Air and fell into his lap.
“Disgusting!” snarled a man across the aisle. “Simply disgusting!”
“You haven’t seen anything yet,” Lee told him, and kissed Charles on the mouth.
The man choked: “I shall certainly report this to the authorities when we arrive in Buffalo!”
“Mmm,” said Lee, preoccupied. “Do that, mister. Do that.”
CHAPTER XXII
“I didn’t like his reaction,” Charles told her in the anteroom of F. W. Taylor’s office. “I didn’t talk to him long on the phone, but I don’t like his reaction at all. He seemed to think I was exaggerating. Or all wet. Or a punk kid.”
“I can assure him you’re not that,” Lee Falcaro said warmly. “Call on me any time.”
He gave her a worried smile. The door opened then and they went in.
Uncle Frank looked up. “We’d just about written you two off,” he said. “What’s it like?”
“Bad,” Charles said. “Worse than anything you’ve imagined. There’s an underground, all right, and they are practicing assassination.”
“Too bad,” the old man said. “We’ll have to shake up the bodyguard organization. Make ’em de rigeur at all hours, screen ’em and see that they really know how to shoot. I hate to meddle, but we can’t have the Government knocking our people off.”
“It’s worse than that,” Lee said. “There’s a tie-up between the Government and the Mob. We got away from Ireland aboard a speed boat and we were picked up by a Mob lakes ore ship. It had been running gasoline and ammunition to the Government. Jimmy Regan was in charge of the deal. We jumped into Lake Michigan and made our way back here. We were in Mob Territory—down among the small-timers—long enough to establish that the Mob and Government are hand in glove. One of these day’s they’re going to jump us.”
“Ah,” Taylor said softly. “I’ve thought so for a long time.”
Charles burst out: “Then for God’s sake, Uncle Frank, why haven’t you done anything? You don’t know what it’s like out there. The Government’s a nightmare. They have slaves. And the Mob’s not much better. Numbers! Restrictions! Permits! Passes! And they don’t call it that, but they have taxes!”
“They’re mad,” Lee said. “Quite mad. And I’m talking technically. Neurotics and psychotics swarm in the streets of Mob Territory. The Government, naturally—but the Mob was a shock. We’ve got to get ready, Mr. Taylor. Every psychotic or severe neurotic in Syndic Territory is a potential agent of theirs.”
“Don’t just check off the Government, darling,” Charles said tensely. “They’ve got to be smashed. They’re no good to themselves or anybody else. Life�
��s a burden there if only they knew it. And they’re holding down the natives by horrible cruelty.”
Taylor leaned back and asked: “What do you recommend?”
Charles said: “A fighting fleet and an army.”
Lee said: “Mass diagnosis of the unstable. Screening of severe cases and treatment where it’s indicated. Riveredge must be a plague-spot of agents.”
Taylor shook his head and told them: “It won’t do.”
Charles was aghast. “It won’t do? Uncle Frank, what the hell do you mean, it won’t do? Didn’t we make it clear? They want to invade us and loot us and subject us!”
“It won’t do,” Taylor said. “I choose the devil we know. A fighting fleet is out. We’ll arm our merchant vessels and hope for the best. A full-time army is out. We’ll get together some-kind of militia. And a roundup of the unstable is out.”
“Why?” Lee demanded. “My people have worked out perfectly effective techniques—”
“Let me talk, please. I have a feeling that it won’t be any good, but hear me out.
“I’ll take your black art first, Lee. As you know, I have played with history. To a historian, your work has been very interesting. The sequence was this: study of abnormal psychology collapsed under Lieberman’s findings, study of abnormal psychology revived by you when you invalidated Lieberman’s findings. I suggest that Lieberman and his followers were correct—and that you were correct. I suggest that what changed was the makeup of the population. That would mean that before Lieberman there were plenty of neurotics and psychotics to study, that in Lieberman’s time there were so few that earlier generalizations were invalidated, and that now—in our time, Lee—neurotics and psychotics are among us again in increasingly ample numbers.”
The girl opened her mouth, shut it again and thoughtfully studied her nails.
“I will not tolerate,” Taylor went on, “a roundup or a registration, or mass treatment or any such violation of the Syndic’s spirit.”
The 34th Golden Age of Science Fiction: C.M. Kornbluth Page 35