“You may accordingly consider yourself detached from him. Further instructions will be given you in due course.” He paused. “What’s the matter, Lucy? Got an emotional fixation on him?”
Her expression left no doubt of it. Hedrock pressed on quietly, “When did you discover it?”
Whatever resistance had been in her, whatever fear of discovery, was gone. “It was when those other women were kissing him. You mustn’t think,” she added hastily, “that disturbed me. He’ll go through quite a lot of it before he settles down.”
“Not necessarily,” said Hedrock earnestly. “You’ll have to resign yourself to the house of illusion but it has been my observation that a fair percentage of men emerge from such an experience hard as steel in some respects but rather weary of worldliness.”
He realized from her face that he had said enough. The groundwork for her future action was established. Results would follow in the natural course of events. He smiled a friendly smile. “That’s all for now, Lucy. Don’t let it get you down.”
Her image and his faded from the screen in a flash.
Robert Hedrock glanced out of the door of his office several times during the next hour. At first the corridors seemed very busy. Gradually the activity died down and at last the corridor was clear.
He acted now with decision but without haste. From a wall safe he took the micro-film plans of the time control machine—the one in the room where he had talked to the weapon shop councilors a little more than two hours before. He had requested Information Center to send them to him and they had done so without comment. There was nothing unusual in their compliance. As head of the coordination department he had access to all the scientific knowledge of the weapon shops. He even had an explanation as to why he wanted the plans in the event that he were asked. He wanted to study them, so his story would go, in the hope that some solution would suggest itself. But his reasons were private and his purpose personal.
With the films in his pocket he headed along the corridor toward the nearest stairway. He went down five flights and came to a section of the Hotel Royal Ganeel that was not occupied by the weapon shops. He unlocked an apartment door, went inside, and locked the door behind him.
It was an imposing suite, as befitted an executive of the weapon shops—five rooms and a tremendous library. He went straight to the library, closed and locked the door, then carefully examined the place for spying devices. There were none, which was what he expected. As far as he knew he was not under suspicion. But he never took unnecessary chances.
Swiftly he held one of the rings on his finger against an ordinary looking electric socket. A loop of metal slid out. He inserted his finger into the loop and pulled. What happened in that moment was an ordinary enough weapon shop phenomenon. He was transmitted by a weapon shop matter transmitter a distance of about eleven hundred miles into one of his numerous laboratories. What was out of the ordinary about the action was that the presence of the transmitter was not known to the weapon shop council. The laboratory had for centuries been one of his many closely-guarded secret retreats.
He decided that he could safely remain an hour. But that all he could hope to do in one night was to make another print of the microfilm. Building a duplicate machine would require many visits such as this. As it turned out he had time to make an extra print of the plans. Very carefully he put the additional copy into a vault filing case, there to join the tens of thousands of other diagrams and plans to which, over a period of several thousand years, he had given an AA priority.
At the end of the hour, Earth’s one immortal man, founder of the weapon shops, possessor of secrets unknown to any other living human being, returned to the library of his apartment in the Hotel Royal Ganeel.
Presently he was back in his office, five flights farther up.
CHAPTER TWELVE
LUCY RALL EMERGED FROM the government ‘stat booth, and she was hurrying through an alcove when she caught a glimpse of herself in an energy mirror. She stopped. The outside lights beckoned. The sidewalks were aglow with a brightness that defied the night. But she stood there in front of the reverse image of herself and stared at her pale face and tensed eyes.
She had always thought of herself as good-looking, but the face that confronted her was too drawn to be pretty. She thought, “Is that what Mr. Hedrock saw?”
Out on the street, finally, she walked uncertainly along. She had made her call from a booth in one of the gambling palaces and the flashing brilliance of the famous Avenue of Luck was unabated. Magic street still, alive with swarms of human moths fluttering from one light source to another. The lights themselves blazed day and night, but the crowds would gradually fade away as the darkness of the upper skies waned. It was time for her also to go home. But she lingered in an unnatural indecision, knowing she could do nothing, wondering what she could do. The inner conflict drained her strength and twice within an hour she paused for energy drinks.
There was something else, also, a sense of personal disaster. She had always taken it for granted that she would eventually marry a weapon shop man. All through school and college, when her own application for membership was already approved, she had considered all others—the ordinary people—as outsiders. She thought with a piercing comprehension, “It was that moment on the ship when he was in trouble. I was sorry for him.”
He was in deeper trouble now. If she could possibly locate the house he had been taken to, she would—what? Her mind paused. She felt astounded at the forcefulness of the idea that came. Why, it was ridiculous. If she went to one of these places she would have to go through with an illusion, mentally and physically.
It seemed to her, shakily, that the weapon shops would separate her from their organization for even considering such a thing. But when her mind automatically flashed back over the fine print of the documents she had signed, she couldn’t recall any prohibition. In fact, some of the sentences, as she remembered them, were positively sensational when examined in her present situation:
“. . . Weapon Shop people may marry according to their desire . . . participate in, or partake of, any vice or pleasure of Isher for personal reasons . . . There are no restrictions on the use made of a member’s spare time by the member. . .
“It is, of course, taken for granted that no member will wish to do anything that might harm his or her standing with the Pp machine . . . as everyone has been clearly told . . . periodic examinations by the Pp will determine the status of a member’s continuance with the shops . . .
“In the event that a member is discovered to have fallen below the requirements in any vital degree, the weapon shops will relieve the individual of all weapon shop memories and information the possession of which by unauthorized persons might be dangerous to the shops . . .
“The following vices and pleasures, when pursued with too much ardor, have proven in the past to be initial steps in the severance of relations . . .”
Among those she remembered as being mildly dangerous for women was “Houses of Illusion”. She couldn’t recall clearly but it seemed to her there had been a footnote in connection with that listing. Something about the danger not being in the pleasure itself but in the knowledge that the men in such places were nearly always unwilling slaves. Repeated experiences caused penetration of the ego with the result that what began as a search for a comparatively normal sensual adventure ended with the ever bolder participation of the ego.
She came out of her intent memory reverie to realize that she was walking rapidly toward the special flash signal of a ‘stat station. Within a minute she had her connection with the Weapon Shop Information Center. A few seconds later she tucked a ‘stat duplicate of the 2108 addresses of Houses of Illusion in her purse, and headed for the Penny Palace.
Her decision was made and from that moment she had not a thought of drawing back.
Inside the Penny Palace she saw things that Cayle could not possibly have observed without having the knowledge that she had. The play, s
he saw, was almost back to normal. A few of the hired people were still ostentatiously playing at games that would otherwise have been bare of players. The moment enough legitimate pleasure seekers were risking money on a machine the hirelings withdrew casually. Lucy headed toward the rear of the great room, pausing frequently and pretending to watch the play at various games. She carried a weapon shop nullifier in her purse. So she opened and shut doors leading to the manager’s office without setting off the Imperial-type alarms.
Inside she depended entirely on her ring alarm to warn her of the approach of anyone. Coolly but swiftly she searched the office. First she pressed the machine-file activator, pecking out the key word illusion. The file screen remained blank. She clicked off the word house. No response.
Surely he had the address of the house or houses with which he dealt. In a fury she snatched up the ‘stat book and operated its activators. But there, too, house and illusion produced no response. Was it possible this man Martin—she had found his name on various documents—had connections with only a few houses and had their numbers in his head? Grimly, she realized it was very possible indeed.
She had no intention of leaving before she had exhausted all the possibilities of her position. She made a quick examination of the contents of the desk. Finding nothing she settled into the comfortable chair and waited.
Not for long. Her finger tingled as the ring-alarm went off. She turned it, first toward one of the two doors, then the other. The active response came from the same door through which she had entered nearly fifteen minutes earlier. Whoever it was would now be in the corridor, his hand reaching for the office door.
The door opened, and the roly-poly man came in. He was humming softly to himself. The big desk and the chair in which she was sitting were so placed that he was inside before he saw that he had a visitor. He blinked at her with sea-blue eyes, a fatty little man who had somehow, long ago, conquered all fear. The piglike eyes switched to the gun in her fingers, then back to her face, greedily.
“Pretty girl,” he said at last.
It was obviously not a complete reaction. Lucy waited. And finally it came, a purring question with an overtone of snarl. “What do you want?”
“My husband.”
From all angles that seemed to Lucy the best identification to make of herself. It was natural that there might be a Mrs. Cayle Clark in the background.
“Husband?’ echoed the man blankly. He looked genuinely puzzled.
Lucy said in a monotone, “He was winning. I waited in the background, keeping an eye on him. Then I was forced out by a pushing crowd. When I tried to get back in the doors were locked. And when they opened he wasn’t there. I put two and two together and here I am.”
It was a long speech, but it covered the subject. It gave the picture of a worried, determined wife. And that was very important. It would be unfortunate if he suspected that the weapon shops were interested in Cayle Clark. She saw that understanding had come to the piglike man.
“Oh, you mean him.” He laughed curtly, his eyes watchful. “Sorry, young lady, I merely called a truckplane service that had contacts. What they do with the people they pick up I don’t know.”
Lucy said precisely, “What you mean is you don’t know the address to which they took him but you know the kind of place. Is that correct?”
He stared at her thoughtfully, as if trying to make up his mind about something. Finally, he shrugged. “House of Illusion,” he said.
The fact that she had guessed that did not make the confirmation less valuable. Just as his apparent frankness did not mean that he was telling the truth. Lucy said, “I notice there’s a Lambeth in the corner over there. Bring it here.”
He brought it instantly. “You’ll notice,” he said, “I’m not resisting.”
Lucy made no reply. She picked up the Lambeth cone and pointed it at the fat man. “What is your name?”
“Harj Martin.”
The Lambeth needles remained stationary. Martin it was.
Before she could speak, the man said, “I’m prepared to give you all the information you want.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t mean a thing to me. We’re protected. If you can locate the house your husband was taken to, go ahead. But you should know the houses have their own methods of getting rid of men when the police are called in.”
There was a nervousness in his manner that interested Lucy. She looked at him with bright eyes. “You must be making plans,” she said. “You would like to reverse our positions.” She shook her head deprecatingly. “Don’t try it. I would shoot.”
“It’s a weapon shop gun,” Martin said, pointedly.
“Exactly,” said Lucy. “It won’t shoot unless you attack me.”
That wasn’t strictly true. Weapon shop members had special guns, that would shoot under fewer restrictions than the guns sold to consumers.
Martin sighed. “Very well,” he said. “The name of the firm is Lowery Truckplanes.”
The Lambeth needles indicated the name was correct. Lucy backed toward the door. “You’re getting off easy,” she said. “I hope you realize that.”
The fat man nodded, licking his lips. She had a final mental picture of his blue eyes watching her warily, as if he still hoped to catch her off guard.
No further words were spoken. She opened the door, slipped through, and half a minute later was safely out on the street.
Anton Lowery was a blond giant who lifted himself sleepily from his pillow and stared stupidly at Lucy. He made no attempt to get up. He said finally, “I don’t know where they would have taken him. It’s just transportation business with us, you understand. The driver calls up houses at random, until he finds one that can use a man. We don’t keep records.”
He sounded vaguely indignant. Like an honest trucker whose business ethics were being questioned for the first time. Lucy wasted no time arguing the matter.
“Where can I locate the driver?” she asked.
It seemed the driver had gone off duty at 2 A.M. and was not due back for another 66 hours. “It’s these unions,” said Mr. Lowery. “Short hours, big pay and plenty of time off.” Giving her the information seemed to bring him a satisfaction, a sense of victory over her that detracted considerably from the indignation in his tone.
“Where does he live?” Lucy asked.
He hadn’t the faintest idea. “Might get that from the union,” he suggested. “They don’t give us addresses.”
It turned out that he couldn’t remember the name of the union. The Lambeth, which she had brought with her from the Penny Palace, verified his statements one by one. Lucy sagged. In three days Cayle would be initiated into the sordid life of the houses of illusion. The dark thought aroused her to abrupt anger.
“Damn you!” she said savagely. “When the driver reports back to work, you get the address of the house from him. I’ll call you ten minutes after he’s due back and you’d better have the information.”
Her tone and manner must have been convincing. For Anton Lowery assured her hastily that he had no objection to her gaining the information and would personally see to it that she got it. He was still protesting as she left his bedroom.
Outside Lucy had another energy drink at a corner automat—and realized it wasn’t enough. Her watch showed a few minutes to 5 A.M. And her tense body told her it was time to go home to bed.
She reached her apartment without incident. Wearily, she undressed, and heavily climbed between the sheets. Her last conscious thought was: “Three days . . . would the time pass more slowly for the man who was enduring continuous pleasure? Or for herself who knew that pleasure prolonged was the greatest pain of all?
She slept on that thought like an overtired child.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
AS SOON AS SHE HAD the address of the house, she called up Hedrock. He listened thoughtfully to her account, then nodded.
“Good work,” he said. “Well back you up. I’ll send a warship over, very high up. And if we don’t hear
from you in a reasonable time we’ll raid.” He hesitated. “I hope you realize that the only way we can justify such action is if you leave no doubt in Clark’s mind that your reasons are purely personal. Are you prepared to go that far?”
He didn’t need to ask the question. The haggard face that stared at him from the ‘stat screen left no doubt of the extent of her fixation. This girl was emotionally wrought up. He felt a qualm of pity, and yet, he realized, he was not responsible for her feelings. He had merely recognized them, and used his knowledge of psychology to intensify her pursuit. A callidetic of the measurement of Cayle Clark would yet make himself felt in Isher. The chance that the impact would affect the war itself was not impossible. Once started on the right path, the pace of activity, the pattern of callidity, would be a direct moving cube, piling up so fast that no human brain would grasp the extent of what was happening until afterwards.
If only there were some way of discovering what form it would take—Hedrock shook himself inwardly. He was not given to wishful thinking. They would simply have to watch Clark’s movements and hope that they would recognize the moment when it arrived. He saw that the girl was waiting for him to speak again. His thoughts grew instantly sharp. He said, “What time is your appointment? Tonight or tomorrow?”
“Tonight at ten-thirty.” She managed a grim smile. “The receptionist insisted I be on time. Apparently, they can hardly handle the business they get.”
“Supposing he isn’t among those available at that time—what will you say?”
“I gather that there is a complete illusion break at that time. The men and women are then allowed to select partners. However, if he shouldn’t be available, I shall not be either. I shall be very finicky.”
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