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decide. And let her stay if it s good? he wondered. And if it isn t, toss her out to the wolves, to Denny
and the prowl cars with their telepathic Unusuals listening constantly.
I am life, the girl said.
What? he said, startled.
To you, I am life. What are you, thirty-eight? Forty? What have you learned? Have you done
anything? Look at me, look. I m life and when you re with me, some of it rubs off on you. You don t
feel so old, now, do you? With me here in the squib beside you.
Nick said, I m thirty-four and I don t feel old. As a matter of fact, sitting here with you makes
me feel older, not younger. Nothing is rubbing off.
It will, she said.
You know this from experience, he said. With older men. Before me.
Opening her purse she got out her mirror and cheekstick; she began to stroke elaborate lines
from her eyes, across her cheekbones, to the rim of her jaw.
You use too much makeup, he said.
All right, call me a two-pop whore.
What? he asked, staring at her, his attention momentarily turned away from the mid-morning
traffic.
Nothing, she said. She closed up her cheekstick, placed it and the mirror back in her purse. Do
you want some alcohol? she asked. Denny and I have a lot of contacts for alc. I might even be able
to get you some what s it called oh yes, scotch.
Made in some fly-by-night distillery out of God knows what, Nick said.
She began to laugh helplessly; she sat, head down, her right hand over her eyes. I can picture a
distillery flapping through the midnight sky, on its way to a new location. Where the PSS won t find
it. She continued laughing, holding onto her head as if the idea of it refused to leave her.
You can go blind from alcohol, Nick said.
Smoke. Wood alcohol.
How can you be sure it isn t that?
How can you be sure of anything? Denny may catch us any time and kill us, or the PSS may do
it . . . it s just not likely, and you have to go by what s likely, not what s possible. Anything is
possible. She smiled up at him. But that s good, don t you see? It means you can always hope; he
says that, Cordon I remember that. Cordon says it again and again. He really doesn t have much of a
message, but I remember that. You and I might fall in love; you might leave your wife and I d leave
Denny, and then he d go outright insane he d go on a drinking binge and he d kill all of us and
then himself. She laughed, her light eyes dancing. But isn t it great? Don t you see how great it is?
He didn t.
You ll see, Charley said. Meanwhile, don t talk to me for the next ten or so minutes, I have to
figure out what to tell your wife.
I ll tell her. Nick said.
You d foul it all up. I ll do it. She squeezed her eyes shut, concentrating. He drove on, then,
turning in the direction of his apartment.
Chapter 8
Fred Huff, personal assistant to PSS Director Barnes, placed a list on his superior s desk and said,
Pardon me, but you asked for a daily report on apartment 3XX24J and here it is. We used standard
tapes of voices to identify those who came by. Only one person one new person, I mean came by.
A Nicholas Appleton.
Doesn t sound like much, Barnes said.
We ran it through the computer, the one we lease from the University of Wyoming. It made an
interesting extrapolation as soon as it had all previous material on this Nicholas Appleton, his age,
occupation, background, is he married, does he have any children, has he ever
He s never broken the law before in any manner whatsoever.
You mean he s never been caught. We asked the computer that, too. What are the chances, given
this particular man, that he would knowingly violate the law, at the felony level. It said probably no,
he would not.
He did when he went to 3XX24J, Barnes said caustically.
So noted; hence the application from the computer for a prognosis. Extrapolating from his case,
and others similar to it during the last few hours, the computer declares that the news of Cordon s
impending execution has already swelled the ranks of the Cordonite underground by forty percent.
Balls, Director Barnes said.
That s how it works out statistically.
You mean they ve joined in protest? Openly?
Not openly, no. In protest, yes.
Ask the computer what the reaction will be to the announcement of Cordon s death.
It can t compute. Not enough data. Well, it computed, but in so many possible ways as to tell us
nothing. Ten percent: a mass uprising. Fifteen percent: a refusal to believe that
The greatest probability is what?
A belief that Cordon is dead, but that Provoni is not; that he s alive and will return. Even
without Cordon. You must remember that thousands authentic or forged writings by Cordon are
being circulated everywhere on Earth every minute of the day. His death isn t going to end that.
Remember the famous revolutionary of the twentieth century, Ché Guevara. Even though dead, the
diary which he left behind
Like Christ, Barnes said. He felt depressed; he had begun to brood. Kill Christ and you get the
New Testament. Kill Ché Guevara and you get a diary that s a book of instructions on how to gain
power all over the world. Kill Cordon
A buzzer on Barnes desk buzzed.
Yes, Council Chairman, Barnes said into the intercom. I have occifer Noyes with me. He
nodded to her and she rose from the leather-covered chair facing his desk. We ll come in. He
motioned to her, feeling at the same time a stiff dislike of her.
He did not like policewomen in general, and especially those who liked to wear the uniform. A
woman, he had mused long ago, should not be in uniform. The female informers did not bother him,
because in no way were they required to surrender their femininity. Police occifer Noyes was sexless [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
