I don't want you to feel sorry for me. Howard's reading last night hit the nail on the head. This may be ruin, perdition, a fall. But there is also in it 'a certain clouded joy'.
Good-bye, my dears. As far as I have any influence—and I think I will have a good deal of influence—your elf troubles are over.
Sincerely and affectionately yours, Fay.
We looked at each other. "She can't be serious," Carol said, and then took the note from my hand. "She's written 'Over' at the bottom of the page."
She turned the sheet of notepaper over. At the top of the sheet we read: "P.S. I was married once to Hood."
Married to Hood—that explained a good deal. I put my arm around Carol, who was on the edge of tears. "Poor Fay," she said, "poor Fay, down in that dreadful place."
"She said we weren't to feel sorry for her," I answered. "And I think Underearth is something we won't need to fear any more."
Carol said nothing. She folded the note up carefully and put it in her handbag. Two or three blocks away I heard a burst of gunfire, followed by the scream of a police siren. I thought, Our Otherworld problems may be over, but we still have to deal with those of the Bright World.
Chapter Nineteen
It kept on raining. The days were getting a little longer, but they were just as dismal as earlier. Carol got a job doing part-time typing, and I quit my job at the computer center and got one with the Berkeley public-health department. It didn't pay quite as well as what I had been doing with computers—I was running routine laboratory analyses—and the hours were longer. But I felt it was more worthwhile.
We missed Fay. We talked about her a good deal. We couldn't decide whether what had happened to her was a tragedy or a sort of happy ending. Was she only the latest of Otherworld's many victims, or was she an august figure like Persephone, ruling tranquilly in the kingdom of Dis? It depended on the point of view.
I suppose her disappearance would have passed unnoticed, except for Howard. The times were troubled, and Mrs. Schumucker, after waiting until Fay's rent was up, confiscated her household goods and offered her apartment for rent. But Howie, having learned from Mrs. Schumucker that Fay had left a note for us when she was called out of town, came around to see us.
"There's something very peculiar about this," he said, glaring at Carol morosely. "People don't just disappear."
"In these days they do," I said. I didn't expect any real trouble with Howie—there had been no suspicious circumstances connected with Fay's leaving—but I wished he'd go away.
"I don't believe it. The whole Id disc system is designed to prevent people dropping out of sight."
I shrugged. "Well, she's gone, system or no system."
"Mrs. Schumucker says she left you a note. I'd like to see that note."
"I'm sorry. We threw it away." This wasn't true. Carol had the note stashed away in a drawer, as a souvenir of our friend.
"Um." He clasped his hands behind his back and looked from me to Carol suspiciously. There were little beads of sweat on his forehead, though the room was cool.
There was a short silence. "I could make trouble for you about this," he said slowly, "but I won't, if—"
"If what?"
"If you'll put me in touch with the people who've helped her go where she is."
I couldn't make much sense out of this. "We don't know anybody," I said. "As for making trouble for us, go ahead and try. We haven't done anything."
Howie's air of gloomy unease deepened. "I don't know why you're stalling so about this," he said. "Fay told me once she had contacts with the underground."
I couldn't repress a slight start. "You see?" Howie said triumphantly. "You do know something.
"Now, look. I want to get out of here." For a moment, his eyes were wild, and I saw that he was badly frightened. "If you'll put me in touch with the underground—the people who've helped Fay out of the country—I'll make it well worth your while. Well worth your while."
Carol frowned. She was sitting on the arm of one of the chairs, sipping a glass of California chianti. "But, Howie, we don't know anybody like that. We just don't. We're not the kind of people who know people."
"You'll have a hard time convincing me of that," he said with a certain spiteful brightness.
"It's true, though," Carol answered. "If we knew anybody like that, why would we stay here? Times are getting worse and worse, and. we haven't any special commitments to any faction. If we could get over the border into B.C., we certainly would. Dick and I have talked about it a lot. But we haven't money enough to be able to post the bond for returning to the States, and we couldn't possibly qualify for exit permits."
"I don't think that's much of an argument," Howie said ungraciously. "You probably don't have money enough to pay what the underground would want, either. Things like that are expensive. But you might know somebody in the underground, all the same."
"Then how could Fay have afforded the underground's services?" Carol asked. "She wasn't any richer than we are.
"You'll just have to believe us, Howie. We don't know anybody in any underground movement. That's the way it is."
For a moment, Howard remained staring at us. Then he grabbed his hat—he hadn't taken off his raincoat during the interview, but had been quietly dripping on the carpet—and headed for the door. "G'night," he said morosely, and went out.
He was back next evening at about the same time. "I knew you could help me," he said as soon as we had let him in.
I was getting sore. I didn't like Howard anyhow, and our evening meal, because of the growing food shortage, had consisted of a bar of milk chocolate and half a package of English muffins. It was enough to make anybody irritable. I said, "We told you last night we don't know anybody in any underground movement."
"Oh, that," he said. "I don't mean that. I'm working on another angle now. There's something else you know that could help me, help me quite a lot."
"What?" I asked, with genuine curiosity.
He didn't reply immediately. He clasped his hands together behind his back and teetered back and forth on his heels a couple of times. Then he said, "Let's put it this way. I've made a bad blunder, a real boo-boo, in connection with the people I work for."
"Who's that?" Carol asked. Tonight she was drinking tea, the chianti being on the verge of running out and no more in sight. "I don't think I was ever told where you work."
"It doesn't matter," Howard answered. "I work for several people, actually. But"—he swallowed and licked his lips—"I've made a bad mistake for one of them. They're people who get uptight when somebody makes a mistake."
It sounded to me as if Howard were a secret agent who had given incorrect information to his employers. Or perhaps he'd been taking money from several employers at the same time. Actually, Howie in the role of secret agent was hard to credit. He was too sedentary.
"Never mind who I work for," he went on. "The point is that I've made a bad mistake. I'd like to try to compensate for it somehow. This is where you come in."
"How?" I asked.
He looked up at the ceiling gloomily. "Two or three months ago," he said, "an interesting sample came into my hands. It was an ounce or so of some reddish cereal, coarsely ground, and it had a bitter taste. It was said to be a powerful intoxicant. I turned it over to our—to some chemists I know—and they were interested."
I felt a thrill of alarm. "You say 'a sample came into my hands'," I said, enunciating carefully. "Who gave it to you? What was the source?"
"Oh, a man who worked for one of my employers. His name was Hood. I don't know where he got it originally. Anyhow, the chemists got working on it. They were interested, very interested. They ran a lot of tests on it."
Sweat was running down my back. That Howie had narcotics-bureau connections was news, and bad news.
For if Carol's association with Hood were suspected, she'd be in for some unpleasant questioning, at least. So would I. When Hood had actually died could be considered a moot question.
But she and I had been with him both times.
"What's this got to do with us?" Carol asked. I doubt Howard noticed the tremor in her voice.
"I want more of that meal," he said. "An ounce doesn't go very far when there are a lot of tests to run on it. Also, I want information on the conditions under which the meal was produced. The chemists say the reddish color probably comes from some fungus growing on the grain. What were the conditions under which it grew? You see what I mean."
"I suppose so," I answered. "But what makes you think we can help you with this? You must know we're not working for any of the people you are. How did you happen to select us as sources of information?"
He gave me a long, almost scornful look. "I saw it in that tarot," he said.
I was opening my mouth to tell him what I thought of his reasoning when Carol kicked me sharply on the ankle. A little of the tea in her cup slopped into the saucer. She said, "Howie, we don't admit knowing anything about any meal. But if we could give you the information you want—it's impossible to get a sample of the meal, perfectly impossible—if we could get you the information, what would there be in it for us?"
"Exit permits," he answered promptly.
"Exit permits? For how far?"
"Clear on up to Vancouver."
"Do you expect us to believe this?" Carol said. "Last night you were begging us to put you in contact with some part of the underground so you could get out of the country. If you can't get out yourself, how could you possibly get exit permits for us?"
"I can, though. It's different. They're watching me, and the minute I make a move to leave, the cords will tighten. But I could get you out. You'd just be friends of mine. You're not under suspicion."
"What do your employers want to do with the meal?" I asked. "I don't suppose it's disinterested scientific curiosity."
"No. Well, they thought if the chemists could isolate the active principle in the meal, it would be handy in riot control."
My face must have shown what I thought of this, for Howie added quickly, "They think it might also be useful for dealing with nausea caused by prolonged weightlessness during interplanetary flight. That's a worthwhile idea, Aldridge."
"Um." Carol and I looked at each other. I said, "We'd like to discuss your proposition before we give you an answer."
"All right." Howie picked up his hat. "But don't discuss it too long. Tell you what, Aldridge. I'll meet you at the telephone booth on the corner of Shattuck and Milvia tomorrow night about five. I'll have the exit permits in my pocket, and I'll give them to you in return for information about the conditions favorable for the fungus growth.
"And don't try any funny business. I mean, don't think you can get the permits away from me by force. It wouldn't do you any good. They'll call me at each of the checkpoints for verbal confirmation."
"How do we know you'll give it?" I asked.
"Why wouldn't I? I don't have anything against you two, and I'd rather be honest if I can."
He walked toward the door. "Don't worry about what use they may make of the fungus," he said, his hand on the doorknob. "The world's already in such a mess that a little more won't make any difference. Good night."
"Good night."
As soon as he had gone, the discussion started. Carol, though she had led Howie on at first, maintained that we really didn't have any information about the fungus to give him.
"Yes, we do," I said.
"What?" she demanded.
"That it's grown in absolute darkness, except for patches of phosphorescence, at temperatures near zero on heaps of sprouted grain."
"What kind of grain?" she challenged.
"Barley, I think. But I believe the fungus would grow on just about anything."
"Oh, Dick! Did you actually see any of this? Are you really sure of it?"
I reflected. "I think I saw it. I hallucinated a lot of the time. But I am sure that's the way it's grown. Why? Aren't you sure, too?"
She looked away from me. "I guess so." Her face lit up briefly. "Wait, though. How do the elves turn the sprouted grain into meal?"
"They grind it in stone mills," I answered promptly. "What the Indians call metates. And before you object that I never saw them doing this, I'll say that it's the only thing they could do. Perhaps the grinding has something to do with the meal's development of intoxicating properties."
"Perhaps it does," she agreed. She sighed.
"Why are you so opposed to giving Howie the information?" I asked.
"I don't like the use the chemists he works for are going to make of it," she answered, looking down and pleating a fold of her skirt.
"That's not our fault. You heard what Howie said when he was leaving. I think he's right."
The discussion passed into an argument, with my asking Carol if she was so high-minded she didn't want to get out of this mess and into B.C., and her answering yes, of course, she wanted to get out, but—
Finally, she said, "I always felt like a coward because I didn't join the vigil at Port Chicago to stop the trucks passing in and out with napalm."
"That was years ago. That war is over. Besides, you were just a kid. Nobody could have expected you to join the vigilers," I answered.
"Kids no older than I was were in the vigil. They put their bodies on the line to try to stop that war. And now you want me to help Howard's chemists develop a new chemical for riot control! It's too much. I can't."
"It's not the same thing," I said. "And, anyhow, the chemical in atter-corn may not be any worse than the stuff they're currently using to control mobs. Dusting for example. It might even be gentler."
Carol got up and walked over to the window. There wasn't anything to be seen from the window except more rain. With her back toward me, she said, "Yes, it might be gentler. But it brings us just one step closer to the naked force of a police state."
"Then let's get out of here!" I said sharply. I was getting exasperated. "The police state is coming, no matter what you and I do.
"Do you always have to be so hard to save, Carol? It seems to me I'm always trying to get you out of bad situations, and having you fight me off. Do you always have to be a sinking ship firing on the rescuers?"
She turned her head toward me for a moment, and then turned back to rest her forehead against the glass of the window. "Are you sorry you brought me back from Underearth?" she said.
"No, of course not! But I wish you didn't resist me so."
"I get so stinking sick of having to be taken care of!" she said with sudden passion. "Always having to be rescued, always having to be saved! Let's go to bed, Dick. We can't persuade each other, and I'm tired. Do what you want to about cooperating with Howie. You will, anyhow."
I went up to her and tried to kiss her. "I'm only trying to do what's best for you," I said.
"Oh, yes. I'm sure you are.
"Can you remember to get some rat poison tomorrow, Dick? I saw a rat in the kitchen tonight."
"All right." Once more I tried to kiss her. She didn't try to pull away, but she certainly didn't connect with the kiss.
We went to bed. We lay beside each other in silence. Once she said, "Don't be cross at me, Dick," and I pretended to be asleep.
Just before I really did go to sleep, I realized that I was irritated toward Carol most of the time then. It was partly the result of a long period of sexual abstinence; but the irritation was also caused by a well-justified feeling of helplessness where taking care of my girl was concerned. If we had to stay in Berkeley, I might not be able to fend for her.
The issue between us was still unresolved next morning when I went to work. Over the coffee and English muffins at breakfast, Carol had said, "Of course, I want to get out of the States. The air is so heavy here. But I think one can pay too high a price for anything." Her eyes looked hollow, as if she hadn't slept very much.
"For anything?" I had said, getting into my slicker. "Can one pay too high a price for freedom?"
"One can pay too high a price for
selfish escape."
I felt enormously irritated toward her, but her reluctance had affected me all the same. When I went to keep the appointment with Howie at five, I was still not quite positive what answer I would make to him.
It was raining. I got under the shelter of a roof overhang, and looked up and down the street for him. He wasn't to be seen, and, though I waited until a little after six, he never did show up. I walked home slowly in the rain, feeling both annoyed and relieved.
"What did you tell him?" Carol asked as soon as I got inside the apartment door.
"Nothing. He didn't come."
"Oh." She looked glad and then disappointed. "I expect he'll be over later tonight."
"Probably. He may not have been able to keep our date."
We had supper—potatoes, lettuce, and a slimy-textured, repellent fish—and settled to wait for Howard. At ten-thirty he still hadn't come, and we went to bed.
He didn't come the next night, either. About seven I noticed an extensive reddish glare in the night sky in the direction of Oakland. I turned on the TV and was rewarded by a picture tube full of arson and rioting. Oakland was on fire and would have been burning considerably more briskly than it was, except that everything was soaked with rain.
Carol watched for a little while, and then went out in the kitchen to wash the dishes (she was doing more of the housework now). I remembered her distaste for violence, and the explanation she had given for it: violence made our world look thin, like a curtain, and Macrocosmos seem closer.
I went out into the kitchen and found her weeping quietly into the dishwater. "You're not going to do anything foolish, are you, honey?" I asked anxiously.
"Foolish?" she echoed.
"Like trying to get a photograph of your soul."
"Oh!" She gave a little laugh. "No, of course not. It's only that I get so sick of seeing buildings set on fire and people hit over the head. It does make things seem thin."
I very nobly refrained from mentioning British Columbia.
The next day was Friday. I bought a copy of the Berkeley Weekly Gazette on my way home from work. The front page was full of small, local, unimportant, cop-upholding news, but the inside pages were occupied with photos and stories about the Oakland riot.
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