“I was in Afghanistan and Vietnam this year,” a woman in a low-fronted crinoline gown remarked. “That’s what they’ve done. And you’re right. The people I talked to seemed happier.”
Stephanie wondered when Dracula had last worked a twelve-hour day of stoop labor on the land and then returned to a house with no machines in it, but a wife who had been reduced to old age in her thirties by childbearing and heavy labor that would have caused riots in today’s penitentiaries. It didn’t seem to daunt the woman in the crinoline gown that the main proccupation of the majority of inhabitants of the utopias she’d mentioned seemed to be to get out of them at any price.
“As a scientist, I agree with you about the machines,” a sailor suit in the corner piped up. “Energy is too cheap. That’s the trouble. Rural communities with wind turbines would keep the price high enough for it not to get out of hand. That would also produce a correspondingly reduced population density, much better for everyone.” In other words, a lot of people’s children would die, Stephanie thought to herself. Other people’s, no doubt. Scientist? Of what? Where would he place himself in the system he was describing?
Dracula provided the answer to that. “What I envisage is an egalitarian system in which all the basic necessities of existence are absolutely standardized. No unnecessary waste. No excess consumer products. Everybody would receive just what they need as determined by impartial committee instead of by greed.” And who would decide what they needed? By what right? Who would be the dispensers, and who the dispensed-to? And what would happen to those ungrateful enough to dissent? Concentration camps?
“As a scientist, I see a rationally planned order, where…”
“Oh, hello there,” Dracula said, seeing her at the doorway. “A pussycat. Are you joining us?”
“No thanks. Just browsing through.”
“Have fun. Meeow.”
“What would you do to provide motivation, though? Some form of religion would still be essential to…”
In another room, a relative of Slessor’s was showing a group of admiring ladies some of the presents that the children of the family had received. One toy comprised a set of transparent blocks containing pieces of scenes created by a well-known artist, which could be fitted together to create pictures of various kinds. “All the colors are so vivid!” one of the audience exclaimed. “What’s inside that one?”
“A part of a landscape. See, if you turn it this way.”
“I like that one, with all the blue.”
“How much does the complete set sell for?” somebody asked.
“About sixty thousand dollars, I think Joseph said.”
“How can I get in touch with this artist?…”
Stephanie recalled a black couple in the Toy Bazaar that she had gone to with Dave, who had agonized over the choice between a train set at fifty dollars or a plastic toy castle at forty-five.
Passing the bottom of the stairs, she recognized a famous movie and television actress deep in conversation. “But what happens if the amendment goes through? From what I’ve heard, the union won’t be able to do that any more. The industry will be swamped with kids from every Hicksville in the country, and there’ll be no way to keep them out. That’s gonna bid all the prices down. I mean, we’re talking about big cuts.”
“Let me give you the name of a good lawyer in LA that you might want to talk to…”
On the way out to the pool area she passed a court jester talking to Superman, Annie Oakley, and the Queen of Hearts. “When I set out to make a documentary, the first thing I ask myself is, what is my point of view? What do I want the people out there to come away feeling? Because that’s the business we’re in, right—shaping perceptions, molding the way people think. And once you’ve got that clear, then you know what kind of material to look for. For example…”
“It’s pure propaganda. The Constitutionals will never abolish taxes. You can’t. And in any case…”
“The Japanese will flood the place. How can…”
“This guy goes into a pet shop, see, and he says, ‘Have you got a canary going cheap?’ And the other guy says, ‘Wadda hell d’ya expect it ta do, bark?’ ”
“Harry, stop staring at her like that…”
“Newell has to be a communist. It’s the only explanation.”
“Why don’t we split now and go on back to my place…”
“I’d recommend state securities because there’s no tax on the earnings and…”
Two morons were pushing another into the pool, where more were screaming and splashing. Another had tried to climb the vines on the side of the house and fallen, and was hanging upside down, thrashing frantically while some tried to extricate him and others laughed. The band played on, dancers packed the terrace, steaks sizzled, and the booze at the bar flowed freely. Stephanie wandered through it all, dazed and bemused.
This was it, the top of the heap? This was where all of the clawing and gouging and rat-racing and back-stabbing was to get to? This was the noblesse, the cream, the elite who knew best, and who would dispense wisdom, justice, and largess to the grateful masses? She had never before grasped with such clarity what the simple idea of people being free to run their own lives meant. Whatever their weaknesses or their ignorance—and nothing taught faster than experiencing the consequences of one’s choices—how could they do any worse for themselves than depending on the likes of this? The parasites were in control of the hosts—and they had convinced the hosts that it was for their own good.
“Ah, there you are, Eva. Are you enjoying yourself?” A knight in plastic armor was beside her. The visor of his helmet was half closed, but she recognized him as Seybelman from the wispy mustache and the lips stretched back to show his teeth.
“It’s… very interesting. I didn’t know there would be so many people.”
“And are you managing to meet many of them?”
“Enough.”
“You have a number of other admirers here, incidentally. I’ve heard several comments. When you get back from abroad, perhaps we should think about doing something to, how should we say… broaden your social life somewhat.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
“Oh, make no mistake, you’ve done the right thing. You’re destined to go places—and I don’t just mean this week, hah-ha… Oh, I’ve just spotted someone I must talk to. Do excuse me… You don’t have a drink. Why not get one at the bar? Hey, I say, Joyce, I’ve been looking for you everywhere. I wanted to tell you about…”
Why not? Stephanie thought. She walked over to the bar by the pool, caught the attention of the harassed bartender, and asked for a martini.
“Hi, who are you?” A slurred voice asked. It belonged to a blonde, maybe twenty, dressed like a French chorus girl, in bodice, garter belt, and black net stockings. Her hair was disheveled and she was swaying.
“Eva.”
“I’m Susette. I’m an actress.”
“Really.”
“See him, over there. That’s Barry Wedhom. I’m with him. He’s gonna put me in a movie.”
“How nice for you.”
“Yeah. Then one day you can come to my party, when I’m a big name and I’ve got a place like this. Wouldn’t that be great, huh?”
“I’ll bear it in mind.”
“Don’t forget. Then when I’m a big name, I’ll tell everyone I remember you. You’re Eva, right…”
Stephanie took her drink and moved away across the terrace. That was when she saw Arnold Hoffenach, watching her from one of the doors into the house. He was not in costume, but wearing plain evening dress with black tie. On duty as always: cool, detached, alert; an island of sanity in a sea of banality. She didn’t know what to expect or how she was going to handle it, but there was nothing for it but to go over to him.
“Hello, Arnold,” she said. She had no idea whether to smile or keep a straight face, so tried to compose an expression midway between.
His eyes flickered over her, making her fee
l as if she were being scanned by an X-ray machine. “It’s been a long time,” he drawled. His voice was strong, clear, but restrained. “You caused quite a flap when you decided to take a break. But I guess you know all about that. At one point Louis didn’t think we were gonna see you again. I never saw him so bananas.”
“He got over it. Everything’s fine now.”
“I figured it’d work out. ” Hoffenach studied her face dispassionately for a few seconds. She tried to read something in his eyes, but they were one-way. Was this simply his manner? Was he suspicious? She had no way of telling. Then he said, “I, ah… heard about your sister. I’m sorry it happened that way.”
So he was human after all. “Thanks,” she said. There was a short silence. She looked around. “Quite a party.”
Hoffenach leaned a shoulder against the side of the door, folded his arms across his chest, and took in the scene. “Yeah, quite a party…” His gaze came back to Stephanie’s face. “Well, congratulations. You made it after all. This is it. The Big Scene. You’re about to arrive. How does it feel?”
Stephanie looked at him uncertainly. He remained unmoving, propped solidly against the door frame, at ease, yet poised, his eyes shifting ceaselessly over everything that was happening. She saw the trained fighting machine, the killer, the pick of the best that the military could produce. But seeing him not through her own eyes but through Eva’s, she saw also the ruthless acceptance of reality as it was, stripped of the pretensions and illusions, that made the excellence possible; she saw the pride in competence, and the self-assurance that came as a consequence of those qualities. The lion protecting the sheep. Rome’s legions standing fast on the northern borders while the capital crumbled from within. And in that instant she realized that he despised all of it—not just all of them individually, but the entire system that conferred power upon them and obligation upon him. The natural instincts of the predator and the conditioned loyalty of the soldier were in conflict. And she sensed then the natural rapport that this man and Eva could have shared.
“I hear there’s an old boyfriend of yours back in town. Phil gave me the word to cool it. Is that right?”
Stephanie nodded. “He showed up at my sister’s funeral. It goes back a long time. We… well, you know how it is.”
“I never thought that was like you.”
Stephanie shrugged. “Neither did I. You don’t, I guess, till it happens.”
“How long have you known him?”
“About six years—since we were at university, back in Florida.”
“What does he do?”
“You won’t believe it.”
“Try me.”
“He’s a lawyer.”
“Jeez, that’s all I needed. Are you off on a respectability kick all of a sudden? What’s next, country club, kids, house in the country?” Hoffenach nodded his head to indicate the general company all around. “You’re on your way, baby.”
Hoffenach straightened up from the door frame, unfolded his arms, and strode unhurriedly back into the house.
CHAPTER 48
“We have ignition… We have lift-off!”
“Lift-off at zero plus two seconds.”
“It’s a good’n!”
“Fly, baby, fly!”
The structure seemed to vibrate to a force that could be felt through the floor from the stupendous power being unleashed on the launchpad a half mile away outside the Vandenberg space center. On the screens, the booster carrying the heavy-lift shuttle slid upward through its service gantries, slowly at first, balancing on a column of flame that lifted it clear of the mountainous smoke clouds boiling around it, then faster, upward and away into the beckoning sky. Soon, nothing was left but its exhaust trail, twisted and contorted by high-altitude air currents in the view being picked up by the long-range cameras from an ever-lengthening perspective.
In the center of the group of civilians in business suits and heavily starred officers who had been watching the proceedings from the rear of the control room, Dr. Hermann Oberwald took in the information from the summary data screen overlooking the floor, gave a satisfied grunt, and turned away.
“How long will you be in California?” the Air Force general next to him asked as the party began moving toward the door.
“Another two days. I’ve decided to combine some pleasure with coming here this time, and take in some sights. Do you know, in all the times I’ve been here I’ve never seen Yosemite. I vowed I would last year, and didn’t. Now it’s the first day of a new year, and this time I’m not taking any chances of repeating the performance. Is the valley open at this time of year, do you know, or closed in by snow?”
They moved out into a brightly lit corridor with glass windows along one side and lots of signs. “It varies,” the general said. “Best to check. But if you get the chance, do go up to Glacier Point and see it from the top as well. There’s a road that takes you all the way up there. There’s an almost vertical hike down to the floor, too, but I don’t know if I’d recommend it.”
“I suspect I’m getting to be a few years past that kind of thing. Now, twenty years ago—”
Another voice called from behind them. “Oh, Dr. Oberwald. I was trying to catch you before lunch.”
They stopped and turned to see General Nathan from Orbital Defense Command leave another group that had been talking outside a door farther back along the corridor to come over to them. “Ah, yes, I was supposed to get back to you, wasn’t I,” Oberwald said. It was about the report that Nathan had sent on the still unexplained malfunction of the XDS-6 defense satellite over five weeks previously, which Oberwald was required to approve. The subsequent firing tests had been successful, and the satellite had continued to perform flawlessly ever since. But some people were pressing for an explanation.
“There are some figures that I still need to see an analysis on,” Oberwald said vaguely. “Can we say another week?”
Nathan didn’t look happy. “It has been put back twice already,” he said. “I’m being pushed from up top for an answer.”
“Refer them to me.”
“Can I tell them you’re working on it?”
“By all means. Tell them we’re going as fast as is humanly possible.”
“Do you have any clues yet?”
“As soon as we do, I’ll contact you, General. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m about to lose contact with my party. Good day to you.”
Oberwald hurried away to catch up with the others. Nathan watched him uncertainly for a few seconds, and then walked slowly back to rejoin his own group. His instincts told him that it was going to be a long wait.
That evening, Oberwald received an anonymous call at his hotel. “I have a message from Ivan,” the voice said in an East European accent. “He asked me to tell you that the machinery meets its specification.” It meant that the other missiles—the special ones—had been test-fired successfully in a bench run.
“Thank you. Thank you very much,” Oberwald replied. “Tell him that is most satisfactory.”
“Good day.” The caller hung up.
Oberwald replaced the receiver and stared at it expressionlessly. “Most satisfactory,” he repeated.
• • •
The Lynx had treated herself to two new playthings as a New Years Eve present. One was a lithe, athletically proportioned youth in his twenties by the name of Tony, with dark curly hair and a handsome, Roman emperor’s head; the other, a similarly young, shapely, raven-haired brunette called Julie. They had serviced the Lynx’s various whims and fancies, sometimes individually, at other times both together, and she had let them go late in the morning, paid off at five hundred dollars each. Now, she lay back among the silken sheets in her penthouse above Madison Avenue, relaxed, satiated, and revivified, smiling and masturbating lazily while she relived some of their more interesting adventures in her mind. More than the purely physical, she found there was a certain spiritual excitement in sex that she paid for. In dehumanizing her par
tners and reducing them to bought things, it enhanced her domination over them. In some ways it was like being paid to kill people.
Finally satisfied, she rose, slipped into a Japanese ukata, and went into the kitchen to put on some coffee, then through to the bathroom to fill the Jacuzzi—sunken, with a black marble surround, built-in TV, and ivory-handled faucets. While the tub was filling, she lit a cigarette at the bar by the window, went back to the lounge area, and sat down on the couch at one end. Using the touch panel connected to the companel unit, she entered a code to access the national news service, and then specified “Local” for the Philadelphia area over the past seven days. When the request was processed, she called up the “Homicide” subsection of the “Crime” index onto the screen.
The holiday had been a fairly quiet one in Philadelphia, she noted as she scanned through the few entries that were listed. She found the name “Shambler, Eric,” that she had been looking for, and tapped in a request for details. The item was a brief one. It stated that a man called Eric Shambler, whom it described as “a millionaire real-estate investor with suspected underworld connections, alleged but never proved to have been one of the prime movers behind the ‘Blightscam’ urban development scandal of four years ago,” had been found dead in bed at his home by the Schuykill river. A verdict of a heart attack had been recorded, although Shambler had no previous history of cardiac problems. The report also added delicately that there were “… indications that Mr. Shambler had entertained a female companion.” There was no clue to her identity, but the police were anxious to contact her.
The Lynx smiled and switched the set off. Rising to her feet again, she went from the lounge into the private room at the back of the suite that she kept locked, and took a brown envelope from a safe behind a false wall panel. She took the envelope out to the kitchen and consigned it to the incinerator. “Alas poor Eric,” she murmured. The obvious completion was superfluous.
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