by Basil Copper
He put his token in the tray and drew out the hot coffee and the thin wheaten biscuits with honey that he liked so well. He did not eat very much when he came off Watch at this time as it impaired his digestion and interfered with his sleep. He went back to the table in the corner where he and Karlson always sat and sipped the hot, strong coffee slowly, his eyes seemingly inattentive but all the time studying the board and Karlson’s concentrated face.
But it was obvious that his attention was waning. He fidgeted for a moment and then turned away from the board, his eyes fixed on the table before him. Karlson looked at him quickly, a sympathetic smile already flowering at the corners of his mouth.
“Tired?”
Driscoll shook his head.
“No more than usual. It is not that, no.”
He folded firm, capable hands round the rim of his beaker and stared into the steaming black surface of his coffee as though the answer to his unspoken question lay there.
“Then it is something which happened on Watch?”
Karlson’s eyes were alert, questioning now. Driscoll knew he had to be very careful in his choice of words. Karlson was a particular friend, but the system had to come first, whatever else happened. He sipped the coffee slowly, playing for time. Karlson watched him without impatience, a sort of majestic contentment on his outwardly placid face. Yet there was a wary and unusual brain beneath the banal exterior. Driscoll had ample evidence of that.
Then Karlson’s face relaxed. He smiled slowly.
“Not Wainewright again. And his shaft noises?”
Driscoll’s surprise showed on his face.
“So you know about it?”
Karlson nodded.
“It’s no secret. We have our eye on things. He was on Watch with Collins three weeks ago, when you were indisposed.”
Driscoll cast his mind back, failed to remember anything of significance. He avoided Karlson’s eye, looked instead at the gleaming metal dome of the roof that stretched above them. Wherever one went in the miles of corridors, there was nothing but the smooth unbroken monotony.
“Your loyalty does you credit,” Karlson said drily. “But it is not really necessary in this case. Wainewright’s nerve was never strong. And he has certainly not been the same since Deems went...”
He broke off suddenly and leaned forward at the table. His sharp, attentive attitude made him look almost as if he were listening for something. Something beyond the roof. Which was absurd, under the circumstances. Driscoll allowed himself a thin smile at the thought. He took up Karlson as though his friend had not hesitated.
“Out There,” he finished bluntly.
Karlson looked momentarily startled; his bland facade abruptly
cracked. He drummed with thick spatulate fingers on the table. He looked almost angry, Driscoll thought.
But his voice was calm and measured when he spoke.
“We do not mention that,” he said gently. “But since you have seen fit to raise it—yes.”
Driscoll picked up one of his special biscuits and took a fastidious bite.
“I have kept a close watch on Wainewright,” he said, more stiffly than he had intended. “If there had been the slightest doubt in my mind.
His companion interrupted him by laying a hand on his arm. “There was no criticism intended,” he said gently. “As I said, we are all aware of Wainewright’s problems. They are being monitored at higher level. Long before any danger point we shall take him out.”
Karlson focused his gaze back on the game before them.
“It does not seem as though we shall get any further tonight. With your permission...”
Driscoll nodded. Karlson animated the lever. Board and men sank back into the surface of the table with a barely audible whine. Karlson folded his hands on the spot where the board had stood.
“Wainewright reported five occurrences in the one Watch,” he said bluntly. “In various shafts.”
Driscoll licked his lips. He said nothing, merely bending his head politely as he waited for Karlson to go on.
“It was unprecedented,” Karlson continued. “It could not be overlooked. So Collins reported it to me direct. Wainewright has been under close surveillance ever since.”
He looked at Driscoll reproachfully.
“You have not reported anything yourself.”
Driscoll flushed. He bit his lip.
“Is that why Hort wants to see me?”
Karlson spread his hands wide in a gesture of apology.
“I do not know,” he said simply. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. But it would be wise to go carefully.”
He smiled then. A full-mouthed, sincere smile.
“Thank you,” Driscoll said. “There is nothing, really.
Wainewright is fidgety, it is true. And he was dubious about Shaft Number 639 tonight. That is all.”
Karlson let his breath out in a sigh of relief.
“That is good. Nevertheless, I should let Hort know.”
He got up suddenly, as though summoned by an inaudible alarm bell. He looked down at Driscoll thoughtfully.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “But let Hort know.”
He went out quietly and unhurriedly, leaving Driscoll to his coffee and biscuits and the insect humming of the hidden machinery.
Hort was a tall, thin, ascetic man with a bald head and hooded grey eyes. He wore a blue tunic zipped up to the neck and the scarlet badge denoting his rank of Gallery Master. He was in his early sixties, but despite his years there was a dynamic athleticism in his wiry frame that many people found unnerving. Driscoll did not find it so, but there was a faint core of wariness within him as he came up the spiral glass staircase leading to Hort’s office.
He could see Hort through the armored glass wall that separated his quarters from the other administration units. Driscoll slid the door back and went in. Hort sat down at his semicircular desk with its battery of winking lights and motioned Driscoll to take a seat on the divan in front of him. Driscoll sank down cautiously, as though afraid the cushions would not bear his weight. Hort’s eyes looked slightly amused as he stared for a moment without speaking. Then he made a pretense of examining his fingernails and came to the point.
“I expect you’ve guessed why I’ve asked you to come here?”
Driscoll nodded curtly.
“Wainewright?”
Despite himself he thought his voice had a defensive quality in it which he had not intended.
“Exactly.”
Hort sat back in his padded chair and went through the nail- examining charade again.
“I won’t conceal from you, Driscoll, that we’re worried. Especially after the other business.”
His eyes had grown serious, and he looked searchingly at the Captain of the Watch.
“Deems?” Driscoll said.
Hort nodded.
“Exactly. We have to be so careful. You understand almost better than I the implications of such a situation. We must avoid any leakage...”
He broke off, avoided Driscoll’s eyes, and focused his own gaze on his fingernails again.
“It is difficult to put delicately, Driscoll. But we have to avoid also the arousing of any uneasiness among the personnel...” Driscoll put on his blank-faced look.
“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow you. Wainewright has reported certain disturbances in several of the main shafts. There have been a number of such incidents over the past year or so. I fail to see why that should be considered anything abnormal.”
Encouraged by Hort’s silence and his relaxed manner as he sat staring at his nails, he went on.
“Obviously, Wainewright is disturbed. But I have been keeping him under close observation. And I understand the Captains of other Watches have done the same when the circumstances arose.” Hort wagged his head gravely, as though in agreement with every word Driscoll had spoken.
“I am glad to hear it,” he said mildly. “But there is something more than that. There must be no repet
ition—”
He broke off, the points of his fingers trembling on the desk. Driscoll realized that he had been applying pressure to the desk top all the while he had been speaking. Hort turned his head to Driscoll with an effort.
“There must be no repetition,” he said with calm finality. “That is all, unless you have anything further to add.”
The matter was perfectly clear in Driscoll’s mind; he did not like Hort and the other man knew it, but he respected his abilities. He would not have held his present position if he had not been immensely able. And it was one of his duties to prevent problems arising. Driscoll realized for the first time what a shock Deems must have given the Administration.
He got up slowly, expecting dismissal. But Hort’s mind had apparently gone on to other things. He chatted amiably of various trivialities before the interview came to an end.
Driscoll turned back when he reached the staircase. Hort was still standing by the desk as he had left him, as though lost in thought. Then, aware that Driscoll could see him through the armored glass wall, he sat down again at his desk.
Driscoll walked back down the stairs; he gained the sloping metal corridor that led to his own quarters. Long after he sought his bunk his mind was absorbed with unaccustomed thoughts. He heard the soft burring of the alarm bell for the next Watch before sleep found him.
Driscoll slid back the door of Central Records and went over the shining parquet to the main desk. He was off Watch today and he often spent some time here, researching his particular projects. Today he went to the Historical Section and scratched his notation on a pad in front of the request screen. It was quiet in the library today; only about two dozen people were spread out at the metal desks beyond the transparent screen. Light shimmered evenly on their bowed heads, and the faint humming of the machinery filled the air.
A soft breeze was coming through the vents; the scent was jasmine today, Driscoll noted. Driscoll liked Jasmine Day above all others. It was a pity it only came around about once every two months. The speaker was quietly braying into his ear.
“Your request has been programmed. Desk number 64.”
The door slid back automatically as Driscoll walked over; it was warmer in the Historical Section, and he unbuttoned the top layers of his clothing. He went down the aisles to where the number 64 glowed on the identification tag and sank into the padded chair. He had asked for the records of the entire year. It would not do to be too specific. And somehow he felt it might be dangerous. He did not quite know why.
He looked listlessly as the image of the first page of the log appeared, greatly enlarged, on the brightly lit screen in front of him. He pressed the button, displacing the entry, working quietly through, pretending to take notes. He spent more than an hour on this stage. He felt his palms slightly sweating as he neared the relevant dates.
He selected an entry that came in the middle of the period that interested him, as though at random. He immediately knew there was something wrong. The familiar bleeping noise began and the crimson light commenced winking. The screen went blank and the recorded voice bleated: “The information you require is in the Restricted Section. To consult the entry you require verified permission of Authority.”
Driscoll sighed. He pressed the neutral button, and the screen came up with the bland entries of the log for the last date before the restricted period. Driscoll did not try any further dates. He knew the response would be the same. If he tried three successive entries in the Restricted Section it would bring the curator to the desk in person to inquire about his interest in the information. He could not risk that.
He sat back at the desk and consulted the notes on his pad. There was only one other thing to do. He would have to talk to Wainewright. Even then there might be difficulties. Driscoll had become interested in the problem. When he was interested in something he never let go. If Hort had not asked to see him; if there had not been some subtle expression on Karlson’s face; if Wainewright’s own features had not borne some furtive evidence of secret shock...
Driscoll drummed with his capable fingers on the desk surface in the glutinous silence while the muted background hum that was almost inaudible to its hearers lapped the library in its almost apian susurrus.
He was irritated with himself; something had occurred to cause ripples on the smooth and placidly ordered surface of his life. He did not like that. He sat there frowningly for another ten minutes or so, silently wrestling with the problem. Then he rose and abruptly quitted the Historical Section. The long armored glass doors slid to quietly behind him, leaving the earnest questers after knowledge to their hermetic silence.
Driscoll waited until after lunch. There was no difficulty. There was nothing against his visiting Wainewright. It was unusual, perhaps. Driscoll knew that television cameras scanned all public places and main thoroughfares. There was really no reason for secrecy, but he preferred to be more discreet. So he walked out as though for the exercise and caught a car on an obscure junction where it was unlikely he would be seen.
He had to change twice, but he felt justified in the procedure. Wainewright lived in Gallery 4,034, and Driscoll was not quite sure of the exact location of his apartment. In the event it took him more than an hour, and during that time Driscoll evolved his story. He did not quite know how to approach Wainewright; that there was something about Deems’s death which had profoundly shocked him was obvious. To one of Driscoll’s fiber such things were a little unusual, but nothing to upset the stolid norm of everyday living.
Yet Deems’s departure had evidently upset the authorities more than they had cared to admit; Karlson’s guarded attitude had not really deceived Driscoll. He had half suspected that Hort had asked him to make inquiries, and his own interview with Hort had crystallized his suspicions. Driscoll’s mind was still full of half-formulated impulses when he slid back the folding door of the car at Station 68 and walked up the tiled concourse in the direction of Gallery 4,034.
He soon located Wainewright’s apartment and ascended to the third stage where it was situated. Wainewright’s lean, strained features revealed their frank astonishment as he slid back the door to answer Driscoll’s summons. His watery blue eyes looked up at Driscoll half-defiantly, half-defensively.
“I am sorry,” said Driscoll almost hesitantly. “If it is not convenient. .
“No, of course not,” Wainewright stammered.
He drew back, his left hand making an expressive gesture.
“Come in, come in, please. I am quite alone.”
Driscoll stepped past his host and stood lost in thought in the radiance of the dim overhead light. He waited until Wainewright had closed the door.
“Forgive my apparent confusion,” Wainewright went on, leading the way into the circular living room where soft music oozed from hidden louvers. He went over to the switch and killed the recital. He waved Driscoll to a divan opposite him and sank into a steel- backed chair facing his guest.
“You see,” Wainewright went on, “your visit is most unusual so that I was naturally surprised. I hope there is nothing wrong...” Driscoll shook his head; he spoke some anodyne words, allaying the other’s fears.
“It is nothing, really, yet I felt I would like to come for an hour. If you can spare the time. .
“Certainly, certainly.”
Wainewright had recovered his poise now.
“May I offer you some refreshment? I am partial to tea.”
Driscoll smiled thinly; there was something a little old-maidish about Wainewright. He supposed it came from living alone as he did.
“Only if you are making something. It is nothing of real importance that I wished to discuss. It will keep.”
Wainewright got up, obviously relieved. While he busied himself making the tea, Driscoll sat with his heavy hands folded in his lap, quite at ease, his lids drooping over his eyes as though half-asleep. But he missed nothing that went on in the small world in which he found himself. It was not easy to shake off the habit
s of a lifetime.
Wainewright reappeared at last, with mumbled apologies. Driscoll was silent until after he had poured the tea. He sat watching the liquid descend in a steaming amber arc into the burnished metal cup. He made polite small talk until the ceremony was over. His host sat back on the chair opposite and regarded him warily. Caution and confusion struggled somewhere in the depths of his eyes.
“I was surprised at your visit,” he said. “I will not conceal it. I wondered if there was something wrong at Control. My records are quite in order...”
He broke off for a second. Then, reassured by Driscoll’s expression, he continued.
“Of course, I know there have been complaints. It was perhaps inevitable. But I have not been sleeping at all well lately.”
“It was about that I wanted to talk to you,” said Driscoll quickly, feeling his way clear. “It is obvious there was something on your mind. It is the private sector, you understand. This has nothing to do with Control.”
He waited to see what effect his words were having on Wainewright. The thin man sat in an immobile posture, his watery blue eyes blinking rapidly. Only the restless clenching and unclenching of his hands revealed his inner tension; it was almost as though his naked nerve-ends were exposed to Driscoll’s probing gaze. The visitor knew his man. He abruptly changed the subject.
“Excellent tea,” he said cheerfully, extending his cup for a refill. “Where do you get such quality these days?”
Wainewright’s apprehensive face flushed with pleasure.
“I blend it myself,” he answered. “It is something of a lost art.” Driscoll agreed, making a mental note regarding his inmost thoughts on Wainewright. His sleepy eyes went on probing the apartment.
“It was your reports of movements in the shafts,” he went on gently. “The subject interests me. And after what happened...”
He broke off abruptly, leaving the sentence hanging awkwardly in the air. For a moment he thought he had overplayed his hand. Wainewright bit his lip. His fingers shook perceptibly, so much so that he set down his teacup on the tray. He put both hands together in front of him, as though to control their shaking.