The President stepped forward, seized the rat by the collar, opened the door with his free hand and kicked him into what had been the restaurant.
The President wore an expression of desolation on his return.
"What a pity! For once I had my hands on one of the miserable wretches who dishonor our people, but what could I do? Mr. Poulet was an accomplice. And there's nothing more dangerous than a bad example at the top. You must know that, Mr. High Commissioner?"
Oh, yes, Baudruche knew everything. Everything, including Poulet's incredible stupidity and the President's superb foot-work. He took the little album of photographs and threw it on the table.
"Look at what your nationals are selling in full daylight, under your very windows!"
The President seized the album and quickly leafed through it. "This is revolting. Who sold you this?"
Baudruche got up, walked to the window and pointed to the guilty party on the opposite sidewalk.
"See that man? The one in the yellow jacket?"
"Just a minute, please."
The President rushed out and Baudruche heard him bark out a few quick orders. An instant later, he was back, kicking and shoving the rat in the yellow jacket.
"Move, you scum . . . Do you recognize this gentleman?" he said pointing to the Commissioner.
"I've never seen him in my life."
"Yes, but he has seen you, and that's enough for me. Empty your pockets."
The rat threw an impressive quantity of pornographic photographs on the table. Emil Poulet's eyes popped at the display. There was something for every taste . . . a challenge to the most assiduous practitioner.
The President went pale with rage. "You sell this swill in the streets! Aren't you ashamed to be displaying such vices before the City's inhabitants? What will they take us for?"
Emil Poulet picked up a handful of photographs.
"What makes it even worse is that our own people posed for these. Mr. Commissioner, these are inhabitants of the City!"
A smile of satisfaction crossed the President's face. He had not dared say it out of respect for the High Commissioner, but Mr. Poulet had taken the words right out of his mouth. They themselves had nothing to do with the production of these things. Their morals were too strict in such matters. He left the Commissioner absolutely free to pursue his own investigation. When it was completed, he would see that the purveyor was punished, and in no uncertain terms. He ejected the rat in the yellow jacket as he had the gambler.
"May we get down to serious business now, Mr. Commissioner? First, to the good news. By tomorrow afternoon, the first number of The Rodent will be on the stands. I know what this paper owes to the Prefect and you, Mr. Commissioner. We are forever in your debt. You and the Prefect will receive the first copies as they come off the press."
"You are too kind. I'm deeply touched."
"Not at all, Mr. Commissioner. It is only fitting. May we now pass on to a subject of equal importance: our building. Where are we at?"
Emil got up and unrolled his plans. There were dozens. Lines curved and crossed in every direction, sweeping this way and that and ending nowhere. The paper was never large enough. He leaned over the table, explaining, describing, boasting. Baudruche watched him out of the corner of his eye. Was he being sincere? He began to wonder. He was doing better than Baudruche had hoped—he was playing his role almost too well.
"I like it very much I " the President exclaimed.
Baudruche smiled. "Didn't I tell you?"
"But what about the time factor?"
Emil dropped into a chair and sighed.
"There's the rub. I am badly staffed. Except for a minority who understand my ideas, I am surrounded by incompetents who quibble and argue over every line. In a word, Mr. President, they clip my wings. Under these circumstances, I find it impossible to realize my potential. . . .
Baudruche broke in with vigor:
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Mr. Commissioner, you already have so much on your mind. Besides—and I don't mean to question your capacities—it would be difficult to discuss these matters with you. Your knowledge of architecture is perforce limited."
"Listen, I trust you. Get rid of the incompetents."
What Emil Poulet knew only too well was that these "incompetents" had great influence over the competents. If he dismissed them, they would never forgive him and would attack his projects with ever greater violence. That was no solution.
But fate was smiling on him: the President said with a diffident smile, "Mr. Poulet, I have a proposition to make. Why go on trying to work in the City where the atmosphere is so hostile when you could carry on your work here among our people, as our guest? You would receive respect and consideration from all of us. Choose the truly devoted and faithful from among your colleagues, bring them with you and they will be welcome as well."
Emil Poulet's face brightened, but Baudruche's darkened.
"I'm not sure if the Prefect will look with favor on one of the City's inhabitants—and one of our most illustrious to boot—deserting his post to work for foreigners."
"Foreigners! That's a cruel word, Mr. High Commissioner. It might have described us awhile back, but not today! The frontiers are open, Mr. High Commissioner; we are forging bonds. I look forward to the day when our two peoples will merge, united by the same ideal of fraternity, and pass freely from sewer to City and City to sewer without feeling in any way like foreigners or émigrés. Isn't that what you hope for too, Mr. High Commissioner?"
"Of course, of course. . . . But it will take a little time. We still have to overcome certain prejudices. . . ."
"Not among our people, not here, Mr. High Commissioner. And if the City's inhabitants still harbor a few antiquated ideas, why not start breaking them down today? Mr. Poulet, you could be in the vanguard. . . ."
Emil was about to open his mouth but Baudruche broke in.
"We mustn't forget that Mr. Poulet isn't alone: he has a wife and child and a home he loves."
Emil jumped at this.
"Mr. Commissioner, you know better than anybody that unfortunately this is no longer the case. My wife has left me, temporarily I hope, but she has indeed left me. As for my daughter, you were good enough to take her under your wing, so I have no worries on that score."
The President gave a satisfied smile.
"You see, Mr. High Commissioner, there are no obstacles, unless of course Mr. Poulet wishes to refuse my offer, which is within his rights."
Emil leaped to his feet.
"I accept, Mr. President, and with the greatest enthusiasm. It will be an experience, a thrilling new slice of life. I'll go pack right now."
"Why bother, Mr. Poulet? Time is precious. Everything you need is right here," and he tapped the plans. "We'll do your packing for you, and your team will join you tomorrow—unless the Commissioner wishes it otherwise."
Baudruche was helpless. If he could just have fifteen minutes to warn Poulet . . .
"Yours is a very tempting proposition, Mr. President, but it must be considered from every angle. I see no reason why Mr. Poulet can't wait until tomorrow to give his answer."
"But why wait, Mr. Commissioner? Such decisions are born of enthusiasm, as Mr. Poulet has just demonstrated."
Baudruche had to admit defeat. There was a shaking of hands, slapping of shoulders and a buzz of congratulations. There was nothing left but to leave. As if by chance, Canard was standing by the entrance.
Baudruche directed his steps toward the Factory.
"What's new, Mr. Leponte?"
"This time, nothing but good news, Mr. Commissioner. The Prefect used his full influence. Did you see the City walls this morning? And did you read the paper? We are all over it! A revolutionary model! No one wasted a minute: orders are pouring in. But we can meet them, even if we have to work overtime."
"Good. That's fine. Anything else?"
"Oh, indeed yes, Mr. Commissioner: an event—what am I saying?—two events! A
s I was rejoicing over our success, Miss Foyle came in to announce a visitor. It was a rat. He was sent by our neighbors' newspaper, whose first edition as you know is to appear tomorrow. He came to offer me his newspaper's advertising services. I didn't have to be asked twice, you may be sure. I signed on the dotted line: the same conditions as with our own paper, and in addition, exclusive rights. What do you think of that, Mr. Commissioner?"
"I think you've lost your mind."
"Think of the possibilities! And that isn't all: a half hour later, I had another visitor. Another rat, and—old your hat, Mr. Commissioner!—from another paper. Yes, those people we considered underdeveloped have, or will have by tomorrow, two daily papers, whereas we have but the one. That should teach us humility! And this second paper is no fly-by-night: it has a guaranteed readership. It's called The Liberated Rat."
"I know it well," Baudruche said.
"Same circulation, same conditions as the first. In five minutes, it was in the bag and the check signed. Mr. Commissioner, this means we double our sales!"
"Did you also promise to empty the City's treasury?"
"Advertising always pays off! As our neighbors become acquainted with our machine, our civilization and our culture will expand—thanks to technology."
"How do you expect the rats to pay for your machines?" "Why, we'll lend them the money, Mr. Commissioner!"
This gaggle of fools would sink the ship. Baudruche didn't know where to turn. He got to his feet.
"Mr. Leponte, your stupidity is beyond belief."
"Mr. Commissioner," he said as he handed Baudruche an envelope, "a tree is known by its fruits. Read my report and draw your own conclusions. The figures speak for themselves. But before I forget, you might be interested in a small detail that struck me about those two representatives. If they hadn't come one right after the other, I would have sworn I was dealing with the same individual: same face, same accent, same size, same clothes—twins! Amazing, the unity among those people!"
Miss Foyle accompanied the Commissioner to the bottom of the stairs. She was radiant.
"You look very happy, my girl."
"And why not, Mr. Commissioner? Everything is going so well. Business is booming. We'll get bigger bonuses."
Bonuses! . . . in a business that was always in the red! The stupidity was contagious.
The rats saluted as he walked past. At least they weren't fools.
The last refugee leaned out over the ramparts.
"Hey, soldier!"
"Finally. I was getting bored."
"Didn't anyone visit you today?"
"Yes, the same girl as yesterday. She feeds me like the birds. If I go on eating like that without doing anything, I'll be fat as a pig. Well, how are things in the City?"
"I'm afraid they may try to test their powder of deterrence on the walls one of these days. It appears it's just about ready."
"What is the powder of deterrence?"
"Nobody knows—even those making it."
"Too bad it's ready, because with that kind of thing, if it isn't ready, you still have hope. . . ."
"That's right, and when it's ready, all you have is fear. What happened last night?"
"I was sleeping peacefully next to my fire when these two guys arrived. You'd think this was the only meeting place around. They sat down on either side of me. That's when I noticed that one guy was wearing a blue suit and a hat with feathers. He didn't look very friendly. The other one was in a red coat with white trousers. He looked much more relaxed, though his accent was terrible. I got an earful of it when they started talking. He said:
" 'General, your language was a little uncouth at Waterloo. You shouldn't say "shit" to a British officer:
"The other man answered:
" 'I'm sorry.'
"I didn't have a clue what they were talking about. When dawn came, they disappeared and I was alone again. Say, the enemy doesn't seem to be coming. I'm beginning to wonder what I'm doing here."
"The enemy is inside the City."
The soldier rose to his feet.
"Just say the word and I'll come."
"What could you do? There are so many of them, and there isn't another soldier in the City."
"All you have to do is make them. You make soldiers by recruiting civilians."
"If the civilians are still capable of being soldiers. See you tomorrow."
Baudruche avoided the busier streets so that people wouldn't see how worried he was. The detour took him past Esther Labrique's house. He could hear noises coming from inside; looking in the lighted windows, he saw a platform, tables and lots of chairs which were being hurriedly set up in rows. What was that blasted female up to now? Above the door he noticed a large banner: "Women's League: Main Office. President: Esther Labrique." Then he caught sight of another notice to the right of the door: "Lecture on Racism and Police Provocation by Esther Labrique."
What was that damned woman up to?
Baudruche spent a restless night. The next morning, he tried to shake off his weariness by unburdening himself to Martha. He told her about the powder of deterrence—the Prefect's "gadget"; he told her about the ants, even though they were so small and quiet they seemed unworthy of anyone's concern; about the Factory, which was spinning so fast that it must surely catch fire again. As long as these people were converting steel into more steel, they were happy. They worked only for immediate infantile gratification. They spent their adult life making toys!
"What can I do against all that, Martha? The only weapon I have left is the little common sense I inherited from my grandfather who got it from his, and an enormous reserve of kicks in the ass that I don't have the right to use. . . ."
He'd aim the first one at the paper—an immense robot made up of empty heads manipulated by the Prefect from the top of his tower.
"It's funny, Martha: the paper is responsible to the Prefect, who is responsible to the workers, who are responsible to the paper which is responsible to the Factory because of the advertising it buys. And all of them pretend to be responsible to the City."
Then he told Martha what he had seen outside Esther Labrique's house.
"She's collected a band of lunatics and neurotics to stir up trouble instead of doing the dishes and going to the hair-dresser's. Because, alas, only the women seem able to act. A few of them still have guts, even if their heads and hearts are empty."
"You're wrong, Robert. There are still a few women with something in their heads and hearts. First, there's me. . . ."
But, Baudruche reflected, as Martha ticked off some more names, they were only women. What could they do?
His mind turned to Labrique, happy in the peace and quiet of his Library.
"Ah, Labrique is well ahead of me. He's beaten the system. He saw it sooner than I did. In a sense he's shown more courage because he'll always be able to say that he kept his hands clean, whereas I'm up to my elbows in shit."
"Robert, it also takes courage to dirty your hands, and even more to stay put than to resign."
"To stay under these conditions is to be a coward." Baudruche put down his spoon, rested his head in his hands and stared into space. Martha looked at him anxiously. The last few days had added years to his face.
He took up his spoon and started to eat again. A good sign: he'd gotten a lot off his chest, he felt better, his courage was returning, he was ready to do battle. Reassured, Martha went out and returned with a bottle.
"It's a wine from the villages. It will do you good. We bottled it fifteen years ago. It should be ready to drink."
It was going to be a long, hard day. Baudruche would have to make short work of the ramparts. Since he was alone, he felt free to lean over the parapet and get a closer look at the solitary figure of the soldier. That is how he happened to notice that the ribbon of jam was gone from the walls. It had to be the work of that idiot, Edge. Baudruche felt a pang of anxiety. He put on his glasses. It was as he feared: the ants were on the rampage again. He checked othe
r areas and it was the same story everywhere. They were back, and more numerous than ever.
"I must find that fool. I'll give him a piece of my mind!"
The wretch wasn't far. Baudruche could just make out his silhouette in the distance. The Commissioner started running, and when he was finally face to face with the architect, he took him by the lapels and shook him like a cherry tree. Edge was too startled to resist. The Commissioner dragged him to the nearest turret and shoved his head through a spy hole.
"Did you do that? Was it plain stupidity or was it out of contempt for Labrique?"
Edge didn't reply. Baudruche straightened up.
"Probably both. Are you all in league to destroy me and the City?"
Edge stammered that it wasn't his fault if the ants were back. It was Civilian Defense's job, not his; he had alerted them yesterday, the moment he had seen the gray patches.
"And so?" Baudruche barked.
"There's nothing to worry about, Mr. Commissioner. They're going to do something right away. They've been waiting for this."
Baudruche left the contemptible beggar and ran posthaste along the walk, down the stairs to Civilian Defense headquarters.
"Are you still here, Fisher?"
"Yes, and I'm alone, Mr. Commissioner. It's my pleasure to inform you that the five old directors have all resigned. And would you like to know why? Because just when they were about to realize all their years of effort with the first test of the deterrent, they opposed it! Can you believe it!
"We had an extraordinary session after Mr. Edge's visit. I saw that it was now or never. So we have an invasion of ants? O.K., that's what our powder is for. Those old dotards were scared stiff. They notified the Prefect they'd rather resign than see the experiment take place. I didn't waste a moment. I went straight to the Prefect and told him I would stake my reputation on the results. He said, 'go ahead!' Ah, Mr. Commissioner, what luck to be governed by a man of such wisdom and discernment! May he live a hundred years! Where would we be without him? What would happen to the City?"
Baudruche did not answer. What was the use? At least he could go to see Labrique at the Library.
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