Liars and Tyrants and People Who Turn Blue

by Barbara Paul

  “Ambassador Schlimmermann,” said Martel the walrus, “are you going to tell us that aiding dissidents helps preserve the Militia?”

  “Precisely,” said Schlimmermann precisely.

  “By providing them with live explosives? Your two confederates supplied their rebels with faulty weapons, but you—”

  “That is their concern. I am not responsible for their misconceptions. Allow me to explain. It’s clear that none of you understand how established authority retains its authority.”

  “Enlighten us,” sniffed the walrus.

  Schlimmermann cleared his throat. “Any unchallenged authority stagnates. Automatically. When there’s no outside threat to its solidarity, it grows complacent, smug. And sloppy. Efficiency decreases—”

  “Just a minute,” Martel interrupted. “Are you saying that a peaceful government must be an inefficient one?”

  “Of course.” Schlimmermann lifted an eyebrow. “Once an institution has achieved absolute power, it dies of overweight. Like the Roman Empire. Totally decadent! Rome could no longer defend itself. And why? Internal decay.”

  And malaria, thought Shelby. And famine. And the division of military forces between Rome and Byzantium. And a few other minor contributory factors like that.

  “So if the Militia is to succeed,” Schlimmermann continued, “it must not be allowed to grow fat. It must be challenged—immediately, constantly. Aggression is as natural to the human animal as breathing. By providing small, containable rebellions, we prevent the larger collapse that would otherwise be inevitable.”

  Every one of the commissioners was sitting open-mouthed. Before Shelby could stop herself, she laughed out loud. Pop Philosophy 101. Three credits.

  One of the commissioners roused himself enough to signal Shelby. Yes, she signaled back. The damned fool wasn’t lying. He really did believe the world could be protected against its own violent tendencies through a simple process of inoculation. As if the world had never been exposed to that particular disease before.

  “Ambassador Schlimmermann,” said the walrus with barely suppressed anger, “I think that’s a load of crap.” (Good for double-you.) “But even if it were true, why manufacture rebellions? Everyone will not be satisfied with an international militia. Opposition is bound to develop on its own—”

  “Too unreliable.” Schlimmermann dismissed Martel’s objection with a wave of his hand. “We’ve never had an international militia before, but that doesn’t mean we can’t anticipate its problems. Please try to understand. Every form of opposition from satire to nuclear warfare carries a kind of compliment in it. It says to its target: ‘We recognize you have a style, an importance … a something we’re afraid of. Otherwise we wouldn’t bother to attack.’”

  You always love the one you hurt?

  “But—”

  “Allow me to finish, please. Attacking a sacred office—and I firmly believe the mission of the Militia to be a sacred one—attacking a sacred office, I say, is a way of reinforcing it. To defy the Militia is to acknowledge its power and accept its authority. Surely you see the logic of that? Attacks on the Establishment are necessary to the preservation of the Establishment. And surely you must agree that enforcing the Militia’s authority is far too important to leave to chance. Rebellions must be timed carefully, and they must be controlled.”

  A ten-second pause—then the entire hearing chamber started talking. Among the mutterings here and there Shelby detected snatches of hysterical laughter. This isn’t happening, she thought. They’re acting as if this were a legitimate proposition worth refuting. All those people dead—because of this arrogant schlemiel and his two fellow puppet masters. Send them to the funny farm and have done with it.

  “Disgusting!”

  “Sick, sick, sick!”

  Go ahead—yell, if it makes you feel better. Shelby felt herself growing light-headed from all the absurdity around her. You’re just proving his point—by attacking him, you make him important. Schlimmermann: a rock island of calm in the hurricane. Puff yourself up, little man; you’ll never know another moment like this one.

  “The time has come,” thundered the walrus, “for us to get a few things straight!”

  The time has come, the walrus said, to ask a few of those overwhelming questions Saint Thomas à Eliot was so fond of dropping into people’s dinner plates. Such as: Are there caribou in Malibu?

  “How,” continued the thunder, “did you ever expect to get away with it?”

  “I didn’t.”

  Is Plato’s cave in Disneyland?

  “Then why do it, if you knew you’d be stopped?”

  “I am convinced my actions will serve to make the Security Council aware of the danger, perhaps even to inspire others to take up where I left off.”

  Was Lamont Cranston overshadowed by Larry Talbot?

  “Over five thousand people are dead because of what you and Li Xijuan and Mañuel Aguirrez have done. You call this a contained rebellion?”

  “Yes. It went no further than I’d anticipated.”

  Did Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson have a homosexual relationship?

  “Do you—?”

  “Stop it!” Shelby was on her feet, pulling off her earphone. “Don’t dignify this egomaniac by taking him seriously.”

  And to everyone’s astonishment, she walked out.

  CHAPTER 31

  I’M SORRY

  “I’m sorry,” wailed Tee. “I don’t do it on purpose!”

  “I know you don’t, Tee. But that’s an awfully bright blue you’re sending out.”

  “Maybe sunglasses …?”

  “No, no.”

  “And I wanted you to be able to come here and relax! Look.” Tee gestured toward the dining table, which was literally covered with food. A bottle of wine. Kreplach soup, coleslaw, cheese, rice crackers, chicken salad, cold roast beef, corn rye bread, and two huge sour pickles. “I ordered it all from the delicatessen. I didn’t cook a thing.”

  “Oh, Tee.” Shelby laughed, and hugged her sister. “Where’s Max?”

  “In Philadelphia. On an emergency call.”

  “An emergency scene design call?”

  “Some show that’s in trouble. Out-of-town tryouts. The producer decided the look of the show was all wrong, so he asked Max to come see what he could do. Max says the first-act set is made up solely of tiers of bleachers holding lawn mowers. Two hundred lawn mowers.”

  “Oh, dear!”

  “Yeah, one of those.” Squeak, squeak. Tee was working her hand exercisers all the time she was talking; one of the grips needed oiling. “Was it awful today, Shelby?” Squeak, squeak, squeak.

  Shelby shrugged. “Another day, another fifty cents.”

  “It looked awful on TV.” Squeak, squeak. “I would never have had the courage to walk out.”

  “Do you think I was wrong to leave?”

  Squeaksqueaksqueaksqueaksqueak. “It’s hard to say, Shel. It was all so confused.”

  “That’s why I walked—it was getting out of hand. Put that thing down, Tee, it’s driving me nuts. Schlimmermann was getting all …” Her voice trailed off as the phone rang.

  It was Eric, calling from San Diego. “Shelby? I thought you’d be at Tee’s. I wanted to tell you you were magnificent! Simply magnificent! I was watching every minute of it, and I’m proud of you.”

  “I’m glad you’re pleased.”

  “When you got up and walked out on them, I stood up and cheered! Actually cheered! This means you’re through with the inquiry, aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “What? What did you say?”

  “I said I’m going back tomorrow.”

  He hung up on her.

  Prick.

  “Have we lost our lie detector?” P. J. Martel asked.

  “No, I don’t think so—I’ve sent Gilbert to talk to her. I’m sorry she stalked out like that.” Sir John Dudley lowered himself into “his” chair in Martel’s office. “Good news—we�
��ve got what you want. Evidence that Schlimmermann arranged for the bombings in Greece.”

  “Hah!” A big smile.

  “He went through a very intricate chain of command, but we needed only one link to get the rest of the chain. And we’ve got him—the man who gave the order to the man who gave the order to the man who bought the explosives. And he’s talking.”

  “Excellent. I can’t tell you how relieved I am, Sir John,” Martel said. “Schlimmermann has shown no indication of denying his responsibility for Greece, but I for one could never vote to indict without external confirming evidence. Any nut could walk in and claim he did it. And Schlimmermann is something of a nut.”

  Sir John grunted. “You have to be mad to kill three thousand people just to prove a point. If he is indicted, he’ll probably plead insanity.”

  “And probably get away with it,” Martel scowled.

  Shelby got back to her apartment building to find Kevin Gilbert waiting out front in a car. She opened the car door and got in; it was too cold to stand outside and talk and she was too tired to invite him in. “Yes, I’ll be there tomorrow morning,” she answered before he could ask.

  He smiled. “Well, that takes care of that. You look beat.”

  “It’s been a busy day. Am I in trouble with your boss?”

  “No, Sir John didn’t bat an eye. Martel might not be too happy at your upstaging him, though.”

  Shelby sighed. “I shouldn’t have let Schlimmermann get to me the way he did. That arrogant … the man belongs in a cage.”

  “He’ll be in one soon.” Kevin hesitated. “Shelby, this is the first time we’ve had a chance to talk since before the two-week recess. I’m sorry about your marriage—breakups are never easy. I’m sorry.”

  She slid her eyes away from the reddish glow around his body.

  He noticed. “All right, I’m not sorry. Shelby, do you remember the first time we talked? In that bar on Lexington Avenue? You spoke of your sister with love and concern. But you mentioned your husband only offhandedly, as the focal point of a problem you had to deal with. So no, I’m not sorry. I’m sorry you have to go through the unpleasantness of a breakup, but I can’t work up any real anxieties over the fact that Eric Kent is out of your life. He is out, isn’t he? Permanently?”

  “Without a doubt,” said Shelby, remembering the phone conversation earlier in the evening.

  “In that case,” said Kevin, “what are you doing tomorrow night?”

  CHAPTER 32

  PRINCE ALBERT IN A CAN

  BARBARA: Killing. Is that your remedy for everything?

  UNDERSHAFT: It is the final test of conviction, the only lever strong enough to overturn a social system, the only way of saying Must.… Your pious mob fills up ballot papers and imagines it is governing its masters; but the ballot paper that really governs is the paper that has a bullet wrapped up in it.

  —G. B. Shaw, Major Barbara

  “Well, Mrs. Kent?” growled the walrus. “Will you be staying the entire session today?”

  Shelby smiled sheepishly. “I’m sorry about yesterday. It won’t happen again, I give you my word.”

  They were in a small room down the hall from the hearing chamber, gearing up for another go at Schlimmermann. “Unofficially, I don’t really blame you,” sighed Martel. “I’m sometimes tempted to head out to the Kuala Lumpur Hilton myself.”

  Shelby accepted the tactful reminder that none of them liked what was going on. “What happens now?”

  “Now we try to find out why the explosives Schlimmermann had shipped to Greece were not defective. The generals must have disagreed about how to run their private war. We’ve got to get that cleared up before we vote on an indictment. Some members of the commission want to include a recommendation if we do indict—a recommendation either to execute or to toss the three of them into a loony bin.”

  “They belong in a loony bin.”

  “But that has its drawbacks,” Martel mused, more to himself than to Shelby. “Do we make Ezra Pounds out of them? Aguirrez’s martyr complex is already getting a big workout. And Schlimmermann—well, you pegged him right. An egomaniac. I’m beginning to suspect we’ll never know what’s going on in Li Xijuan’s mind.”

  “Won’t executing them make them even bigger martyrs?”

  “For a while. But people have short memories. As long as these three are in confinement, they’ll be a constant reminder of their ‘self-sacrifice,’ as they see it. Have you read the newspapers this morning? Already our conspirators are beginning to acquire heroic status.”

  “Heroic!?!”

  The old man snorted. “How many people do you think really understood all that rigamarole of Schlimmermann’s? To most of the television viewers he came off as a militant nonconformist, advocating open rebellion against the Establishment. Everybody’s favorite target.”

  “But that’s just the opposite of what he said!”

  “I know it, and you know it, but the people—that great, seething mass we’re here to serve—the people simply don’t listen very carefully. Half of them hate Schlimmermann because he’s a ‘rebel,’ and half of them love him for the same reason. And Schlimmermann’s no rebel—he’s a rigid authoritarian who’ll kill indiscriminately to maintain not his own authority, which would at least be understandable, but the idea of authority.”

  “In other words, a nut.”

  “That’s where the trouble comes in. Men have been willing to kill for ideas before. Do we judge Schlimmermann insane because his idea is such a repugnant one?”

  “Yes.”

  The walrus looked startled, and then laughed. “You sound very positive.”

  “I’m not, really.” A moment passed. Then Shelby said, “I think I ought to tell you I’m beginning to develop the ability to read a new aura—one that reveals anxiety and depression.”

  Martel’s eyebrows shot up. “A new aura? Will it interfere with—?”

  “No, not at all. There’s no confusion between the two. The new one is a different color entirely. For instance, you’ve been glowing light blue during this entire conversation. All that means is that you’re worried—hardly surprising, considering the line of work you’re in. But by the time this new power is fully developed, I may be able to diagnose cases of extreme anxiety that result in mental illness. But I’m not to that point yet.”

  “How long until you are? In time to help us decide about Schlimmermann and the other two?”

  Shelby shook her head. “My lie-detecting ability took fourteen years to reach its peak. I was a child when I first saw an aura—in the form of a faint pink ring around my father’s body. But it wasn’t until a few years ago that it became totally reliable. But Dr. Wedner says it will probably go faster this time—”

  “Wedner? Oh yes, the Rutgers man, right. Go on.”

  “He says the fact that I started off seeing different shades of blue indicates a shorter development time. But don’t count on anything—the testing procedures alone take more time than this inquiry will be in session. Right now all the blue aura tells me is when people are worried or upset. Even when they hide it as well as you do.”

  A walrus-smile. “My dear, I hope I’m still around when you can ‘read’ mental illness. You’ll solve a lot of problems for us.”

  “Or create them,” Shelby said glumly.

  He laughed. “I’ll bet you’re giving off a blue aura yourself.” He glanced at his watch. “Time for the circus to begin. Let’s go hear what our murderous peer has to tell us today.”

  CHAPTER 33

  SPRINGES TO CATCH WOODCOCKS

  P. J. Martel sat silent, immobile, his eyes closed. Content to let the Indian member of the commission carry the ball for a while.

  “Ambassador Schlimmermann,” said the Indian, “do you deny arranging the purchase of two hundred pounds of gelignite through a Zurich distributor named Franz Meier?”

  “One moment please.” Schlimmermann leaned forward in his chair. “Before I answer any mo
re questions, I have a demand to make of this commission. I want that woman removed from this hearing chamber.” And he pointed at Shelby.

  “Who, me?” Shelby whispered to the lawyer sitting next to her.

  Martel opened one eye at the word “demand” but said nothing.

  “Mrs. Kent is part of our staff,” the Indian said. “She has every legal right to be here.”

  “She has no legal right to call me an egomaniac,” Schlimmermann barked. “I want her out of here.”

  The Indian looked toward Martel. The walrus stirred. “Herr Schlimmermann. May I remind you that you are not the one to lay down the conditions of this inquiry? Mrs. Kent stays. But you are quite correct in one thing—she had no right to call you an egomaniac. I think an apology is in order. Before you object”—cutting off the German before he could say anything—“perhaps I should remind you this inquiry is providing you with the only public forum you will have. If you wish to explain your position publicly, I suggest you accept Mrs. Kent’s apology.”

  Schlimmermann glared at Martel a moment and then said, “I haven’t heard any apology yet.”

  The walrus leaned back in his chair, looked over his shoulder at Shelby, and cocked a bushy eyebrow at her.

  “Uh, yes, well,” Shelby stammered. “I apologize for calling you an egomaniac, Ambassador.”

  “There you are,” said the walrus, and went back into his coma.

  Schlimmermann didn’t deign to answer either of them. Shelby noticed Li Xijuan watching the exchange with amusement in her eyes. Aguirrez, slumped in his chair, glowing blue, hadn’t heard a word that was said.

  The Indian started to repeat his question about the gelignite but Schlimmermann interrupted him impatiently. “Yes, yes, I ordered it. Why keep going on about it? I arranged the bombing of the Militia Supply Headquarters in Athens and the garrison near the Albanian border.”

  “As part of the, ah, contained rebellion you were telling us about.”

  “Precisely. There has long been much unco-ordinated guerrilla activity in Greece. I provided the rebels with a focus for their hostility. With no further explosives or arms available to them, they will live on the so-called glory of their two-pronged attack on the Militia for years to come. They are temporarily purged. Greece will be quiescent now—for as long, it is to be hoped, as it takes the Militia to establish its authority beyond challenge.”