Four Unpublished Novels Read online

  “Might; might not.”

  That’s logical, thought Movius. How does he know he can trust me?

  “You could try remembering when the time comes,” said Movius.

  “Might; might not.”

  Movius smiled. “Thanks.”

  “I figure you’re welcome.” Peterson turned, slipped out.

  A good man, thought Movius. He’s going to come in handy.

  Quilliam London brought Movius his breakfast. The old man lowered himself to a box, scratched his chin with a thumb. “They’re already looking for you.”

  Movius took his plate, sat on the cot. “Bu-Con?”

  “No. Some organization we don’t recognize. Nobody knows who the men are.”

  Movius thought about the efficiency of the LP grapevine, put the plate aside. “Nobody?”

  London nodded. “We think it’s some special squad The Coor has imported. They’re not hunting for you by name. They’re just around asking if anyone answering your description has been seen. Some of them have pictures.”

  “Has my order to the ALP gone out?”

  “On the morning round-up. It’ll be in the District Circulars by tonight.”

  “If The Coor’s special squad …”

  “You’re worried about answering the Bu-Trans order if and when it comes out.” London narrowed his eyes. “If you were married right away …”

  Movius had picked up his plate, started to resume eating. He looked up sharply. “How’s that?”

  “You come out of hiding with a wife.”

  “What good would that do me?”

  London bent forward, stood up slowly, stiffly. “You could claim your nuptial off-time. If they dared bring up the ALP thing, you could say you weren’t very attentive right after being married. The worst Bu-Con magistrate in the city wouldn’t dare say anything after that, especially with you reporting for legal orders.”

  “I’m not worried about the magistrates.”

  “There’s another aspect to it: Glass might pass you by if you were married—out of the running, so to speak.”

  “Even after I killed one of his bully boys, maimed two others and shot a Bu-Con operative?” Movius put his plate on a box, got to his feet.

  London looked toward the door. “They can’t prove it was you.” He turned back. “We’ll fix you up with an alibi.”

  Movius shook his head. “It’s no good. If The Coor wants me badly enough, he’ll go on trying until he gets me … or until I get him.”

  “Glass isn’t the only big man in the government,” said London.

  “Are you referring to that pipsqueak O’Brien?”

  London put a hand over his mouth, removed it. “No, I was referring to Warren Gerard.”

  “That CR-14 thing?”

  “Yes. Glass is afraid of Gerard. If you can get Gerard to back you, The Coor may call off his dogs.”

  Movius looked skeptical. “He may not, too.”

  “That’s the chance we take.”

  The blood flushed into Movius’ face. “You mean that’s the chance I take!”

  “Of course, of course,” said London. “But Gerard does have a big organization.”

  “Why would he want to protect me?”

  “He needs you.”

  Movius’ voice showed scorn. “Like he needs an extra car and driver.”

  London ignored the bitter tone. “The Coor and Gerard are about ready for a showdown on the CR-14 issue and The Coor holds the edge right now. Gerard needs help.”

  “And you think I fit Gerard’s requirements?”

  “I know you do. I’ve seen your Sorter card. There’s a deviation of .00001 from the requirements and they were tough.” London pursed his lips. “High loyalty index, resourcefulness, adaptability, knowledge of the government, no attachments to anyone high in the government …”

  “Why couldn’t I stay in hiding, organize from here?” Movius walked to the corner of the room and back. “That seems the most logical …”

  “It’s not.” London faced him from the doorway. “If Glass succeeds in taking over Bu-Trans, he’ll have the strength to capture every other department of the government. Our enemy will no longer be divided and they will crack down on the Seps all over the world.”

  “So I have to save Gerard’s neck to save our necks, is that it?”

  “That’s it. We need a divided government. We need the time to gain strength.”

  “Even so …”

  “This is the way things are,” said London.

  “I meant about the wife,” said Movius. “Is that necessary?”

  “I believe so. You have to present a good front to Gerard.”

  Movius shrugged. “Well, where do I find a wife?”

  “We thought you might have some woman friend.”

  Movius thought of his friends. A pack of averted faces! All except Phil Henry. He shook his head. “I know one man I think I could trust. The only woman friend I had is probably sleeping with The Coor right now.” He clenched his fists, thrust them into his pockets.

  “Miss Lang?”

  Movius stared at the wall. “Yes.”

  “No others?”

  “None I could trust.”

  They were silent while Movius clenched and unclenched his fists until the muscles pained him. “Maybe there’s someone in your classes,” he said. “It doesn’t have to be a real marriage.”

  “It has to be convincing, though,” said London. He lifted the curtain at the doorway, dropped it. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “We’ve another problem,” said Movius. “You know what Glass will do first. He’ll have my number called on the next minor opp. When I go out to register, his men will bottle off the area and comb it. If I don’t go out, they sentence me to penalty service the minute I show my face.”

  “We thought of that,” said London. “One of the things we do this morning is make a rubber stamp of your thumbprint. Somebody we trust will report you in miles from here. We’ll scatter your registrations until they think you have wings.”

  Movius paced across the room and back. “That should work.” He stopped, looked up at London. “I want to start organizing. We should put out an appeal for recruits, get cell meetings.”

  London pointed to a stack of boxes against the back wall of the room. “There’s a duplicator in there somewhere. Grace knows how to operate it. You start drafting the appeal. I’ll send Grace down with our skunk and EMASI! plate.”

  “Every Man A Separate Individual,” said Movius.

  “You’ll make a good Separatist yet,” said London.

  Movius shook his head. “You have it wrong. I’m already a Sep. I’ll do the making of Seps. Send Grace along.”

  London’s eyes held an odd, speculative light. “I wonder if we made the right choice?” he said.

  “Choice of what?”

  “Nothing,” said London. “I was thinking out loud.”

  Chapter Eight

  O’Brien stared at the pigeons on the ledge, wishing they’d stop their senseless cooing and take off to wherever it was they went in the afternoons. Without turning, he said, “What’s he doing now?” He turned. “He’s had a week to get things moving.”

  Quilliam London turned away from the multi-colored wall chart. “He’s back in his room with Janus Peterson and about a dozen others. He’s appointing cell chiefs. He’s named Janus …”

  “Cells?” O’Brien glanced sharply at London. “I had no idea Movius read history.”

  “His father taught it before it was low-opped.”

  “Oh, yes. Slipped my mind for a moment. Of course he’d know history. I’m letting myself get too nervous. Must quiet down.” O’Brien tugged at his ear.

  “He and Grace have put together a strong appeal for recruits,” said London. “It’s really a masterpiece. It picks up and magnifies every one of the little things you hear the LP’s griping about.”

  O’Brien took his chair at the end of the table, sat down. “What about t
he marriage?”

  London rubbed a finger against his cheek. “Grace is willing. She’ll be along in a …”

  The door opened; Grace slipped in, sank into a chair beside her father. “He’s a slave driver,” she said. “But he certainly knows how to get things going.” She was breathing rapidly as though she had been running.

  “We were just talking about the marriage idea,” said O’Brien. “It’d be a good thing to have a trusted operative such as yourself near him all the time. And a platonic alliance such as this wouldn’t …”

  Grace stood up, went to the window and appeared to be watching the pigeons. She said, “I think …” broke off and put a hand to the glass in front of her.

  “Not backing out are you?” asked O’Brien.

  She turned, looked from O’Brien to her father. “Father, I …”

  London frowned. “Are you maybe getting to like him a little too much?”

  “Of course not!” She turned back to the window.

  “I was just asking,” said London. “After all, you have been seeing a great deal of him these past few days and the man is charming.”

  “It’s just so cold-blooded,” said Grace, addressing the window.

  O’Brien gave his ear a particularly sharp tug. “Revolution is always cold-blooded.”

  “I suppose so.” She looked at her hands, rubbed a finger against the glass. “Well, if we’re going to do it, let’s get it over with.” She turned, looked at O’Brien. “Can you get the marriage registry in so it won’t be found until we need it?”

  “All taken care of,” said O’Brien.

  “Maybe we’d better get someone else,” said London.

  Grace shook her head. “No. Nathan is right. I’m the obvious one for the job.”

  “But …”

  “No buts, Father. It was your idea, remember?”

  “I was afraid you’d remind me of that.”

  Chapter Nine

  It was altogether unlike what Movius had imagined his wedding ceremony would be. Navvy came for him at a quarter past seven in the cell-like room off the tunnel.

  “Pastor Dillon had to wait until after his regular rounds before he could come,” said Navvy. He sat down on the cot, slapped his knee.

  Movius almost told him to call it off. He felt a sudden weariness, realized he’d been working steadily since five that morning. So damned much to do, so many people to see and screen. Those tri-di recordings to make and ship off overseas and to the rest of the country.

  “You ready?” asked Navvy. He looked up at Movius, an impersonal, scanning look that made Movius uncomfortable.

  “Just a minute.” He went back to the washroom, washed ink stains off his hands. Again he wondered if it wouldn’t be simpler to smuggle him onto one of the skytrains. Personal appearances at the new organizations were much more effective. People liked to see a man before accepting him as a leader. The tri-di recordings were good, though, especially when magnified. Movius dried his hands, returned to Navvy.

  “Let’s go,” said Navvy. He lifted himself to his feet.

  Movius sought in his mind for something else to use as a delay. Nothing. “May as well,” he said.

  In the boiler room the flickering orange light gave an evil cast to the walls. It was almost unbearably hot in the room. Movius felt the perspiration start under his arms, knew he would be sticky and uncomfortable before this was finished.

  Pastor Dillon was a frail-bodied man with an angular head, glazed, remote eyes, sing-song voice. “And this is the bride/groom,” he said. He held a worn black book opened in his hands. The Bible. Another history book. They’d low-opp that, too, if they dared.

  Grace and her father were arguing in whispers. Movius heard her say, “It’s only a temporary …” She broke off as she saw Movius.

  “I understand how things are sometimes,” said Pastor Dillon, who also had overheard her. “If you’d like, I could pre-date the license and ceremony, make it appear that the little one was …”

  “Not necessary!” snapped Quilliam London. He glared at the pastor, patted Grace’s shoulder. “As you will, my dear.”

  Again Movius had the impulse to back out, get another woman for the role. He kept wanting to say something all the while Pastor Dillon intoned the ancient ceremony, but he couldn’t find his voice except to respond as directed.

  “God bless you and this holy union,” said Pastor Dillon in his strange sing-song. “May He watch over you and ever keep you in His holy grace … Amen.”

  Grace, thought Movius. Holy Grace. He felt a decidedly unholy impulse to comment on this, but the impulse was stifled when he turned and saw two tears running down her cheeks.

  “Kiss her,” said Pastor Dillon.

  “Wha … what?”

  “Kiss her. It’s customary.”

  London nodded for him. The hunter eyes had lost some of their directness. Stiffly, Movius took Grace in his arms, kissed her lips, surprised at the salt taste of tears. It was unlike any other kiss of his experience—tremulous, haunting.

  Pastor Dillon gave a final blessing, turned, labored up the stairs at the end of the boiler room. They heard a door open, close.

  “Well,” said Movius.

  London took his daughter’s arm. “Good night.”

  Grace did not look at him.

  Father and daughter followed the route taken by the pastor, leaving Navvy and Movius in the baleful orange light of the boiler room. It had never more reminded him of the Biblical hell. Low-opp that, too! he thought.

  Movius found himself unaccountably angry with Navvy. He said, “I can find my way back alone. Go on with them!”

  Navvy looked at him, shrugged, went up the stairs.

  The hidden room was a dank, cold place after the boiler room. Movius turned off the light, threw himself onto the cot. The memory of Grace’s low voice answering Pastor Dillon, the frightened look on her face, the tears, the tremulous kiss, all kept intruding on his other thoughts. He sat up, undressed in the dark, crawled between the blankets, feeling somehow cheated.

  In the days that followed, Movius found himself often brought up sharp as he looked at Grace. That’s my wife! Great Gallup!

  And Grace, when she saw him looking at her this way, blushed, went more quickly about her work.

  There wasn’t much time for personal thoughts, though. More cells were being organized, more recorded speeches made. The local organization passed the sixteen thousand mark.

  In one month, nine of Movius’ couriers were caught, but they destroyed their packages with their incendiaries, killed themselves with a quick poison in a false tooth.

  Chapter Ten

  Helmut Glass, his square face set in an angry frown, paced his office atop the Com-Burs Building. It was a sybarite’s office—soft carpets, chairs with deep cushions, a bar in the corner, dark paneling. An aroma of some wood perfume mingled in the air with the smoky residue of rare tobacco.

  Across from Glass, on a coffee-brown leather couch, sat Loren Addington, director of the Bureau of Control. A fat man with puffy, sadistic eyes which he hid behind thick lenses. A red toupee, obvious in its false youthfulness, replaced his lost hair.

  Beside Addington sat Rafe Newton, whose youth fitted the pale reddish cast of his hair. Someday he might have eyes like his uncle, Helmut Glass—hard and unforgiving—and a fat body like his fifth cousin, Loren Addington. Now he had the look of a hungry wolf waiting for one of his pack mates to stumble.

  “It’s the biggest movement we’ve ever encountered,” said Glass. He dropped into the chair at his desk. “And we don’t have a single line into it. I can sense the size of it. Those couriers. Men have to be strongly indoctrinated to give up their lives.” He looked up into Addington’s owlish eyes. “What about the packages they carried?”

  Addington fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a pill which he popped into his mouth. “They appear to have been tri-di reels, but there wasn’t enough left to reconstruct.”

  “Where’d they g
et the incendiaries?” demanded Glass.

  “I don’t know.” Addington chewed placidly on his pill.

  “You don’t know.” Glass mimicked Addington’s tone. The fat man did not change expression. “Do you know anything?”

  Addington swallowed the pill. “A rumor.”

  “What, what is it?”

  “You call Movius?”

  Glass scowled. “And there’s another loose end. You haven’t found him yet.” He seemed at the breaking point of exasperation.

  “There’s a rumor going around the Warrens that he’s the new boss of the Sep movement.”

  “Well, trace the rumor,” said Glass.

  “Haven’t had any luck.”

  Glass turned to Newton. “What about you, Rafe?”

  Newton’s eyes took on a glaze of familial cordiality. “I’ve been too busy working on Gerard.”

  “I believe we’d better hold off on Gerard,” said Glass. “Let it ride for awhile and concentrate on the Seps. Make a few surprise raids at random. Shake down the Warrens. Haul in some people for special questioning. I don’t think we have much …”

  “But I’m almost ready to move on Gerard,” said Newton. His eyes had regained some of their wolfish look.

  “Oh? How close?”

  “Another two weeks. We’re working on his male secretary now.”

  “Too long,” said Glass. He turned back to Addington, missed the quick light of anger in Newton’s eyes. “I want this thing smashed. Don’t bother checking that rumor about Movius. Just find him and dump him in the river. And don’t take …”

  A door at the end of the office opened. Cecelia Lang stood in the doorway. She wore a pair of shimmering black Top Rank coveralls cut to display her figure. “Helmut,” she said, her voice keyed to the tone she knew made Glass squirm.

  “Just a few minutes,” said Glass.

  “But you said you wouldn’t be long.”

  Newton’s lips twitched into a smile, quickly erased.

  “It’ll just be a few seconds now,” said Glass.

  Cecelia waited in the doorway.

  Glass turned back to the two men on the couch. “Find that man and get rid of him.” He stood up, strode toward Cecelia.