Knowing that the man would be out for at least four minutes, Duncan took his necklace and attached ID card from him. He also pulled the man’s gun from its holster, noting that he wore civilian clothes under the robe. The card, inserted in a slot in the nearest wallscreen, activated the display of a slowly revolving 3-D icon and the biodata. He was Detective-Colonel Kieth Alan Simmons. (Duncan briefly wondered why he spelled his first name as Kieth.)
Simmons was Tuesday’s chief organic officer for the La Brea Tower Complex. His residence was on the 125th level, of course. He was married and had a full quota of children, both under twelve. His subannual salary was 64,000 credits.
One item surprised Duncan. Simmons’s first wife had been Detective-Captain Lin Cozumel Erlend. Duncan knew from his reading of Erlend’s biodata that she had been divorced from a Simmons. It had meant nothing then. He laughed softly. Erlend had never known that the mysterious stranger, her superior, was her own husband. Simmons must have been laughing behind his mask during their clandestine meetings.
Duncan returned to the body, replaced the ID card, and dragged Simmons deeper into the aisle formed by two rows of large stacked boxes. A minute later, Simmons opened his eyes and turned his head to both sides. Then, still looking confused, he stared at Duncan. Duncan held the can of TM in his left hand, ready to spray it again if Simmons tried to attack him. With the other hand, he removed his wig.
Simmons’ eyes widened.
“You recognize me?” Duncan said.
Simmons swallowed and said, hoarsely, “Caird! Duncan! How did you…?”
“Find you? I have my methods.”
“Where is…she?”
“Erlend? She’s in a stoner just now.”
“She told you?”
“I used TM,” Duncan said. “None of the people who told me what I wanted to know could help it. So, forget about punishing them. How’s your head?”
“It hurts. But it’s not bad.”
“I gave you the minimum power,” Duncan said. “Are the monitors on in here? Don’t lie. You’ll be in as much danger as I.”
“They’re on, but they’re getting a feed-in of an empty room.”
“I believe you,” Duncan said, “but I’ll check it out anyway.”
He brought the can out from behind his back swiftly to within an inch of Simmons’s face. The spray shot out. Simmons passed out with his head twisted away from Duncan. After straightening Simmons’s head, Duncan placed Simmons’s shoulderbag under his head. He regretted that he could not question Simmons in a more private and secure place. But he could not take him to the Cloyds’ or Erlend’s apartment. Here was where he had to get the information he needed.
He placed his shoulderbag by Simmons and sat down on it. The first question of the many he had would be about the operation of the roundabout circuit Simmons used to call Erlend.
Duncan opened his mouth to speak. Simmons’s fist struck him hard on his chin.
For a few seconds, as Simmons rolled over and rose to a half-crouch, then leaped on Duncan, who was lying flat on his back, Duncan was confused. He might have been more so, but Simmons had not yet gotten his full strength back. The blow did not knock Duncan out, and Simmons was not as fast getting up from the floor as he would normally have been. Acting on the reflexes of a long-trained fighter, Duncan’s left foot shot out. The instep slammed into Simmons’s crotch. He yelled with pain and fell to one side, clutching his groin. Duncan scrambled to his feet, though not as swiftly as he would have if he had not been weakened by the chinblow. He kicked Simmons’s lower jaw once and his ribs twice. Though not unconscious, Simmons was limp. His jaw was open; his eyes, glazed. He did not seem to be feeling pain.
Duncan had recovered from Simmons’s fistblow, but he was still mentally stunned. He could not understand why the TM had not taken effect. Simmons had obviously been faking unconsciousness. Yet, the same can of TM had worked on Jaccoud and Erlend. For some reason, Simmons was immune to the spray. Duncan felt as if he had been running a race and was winning it until he smashed into a glass wall.
As far as he knew, he was the only person in the world naturally invulnerable to the truth drug. Of course, it was possible that there were others. But the ability would have to be very rare, and the chances of his running into another with it were extremely low.
Shaking his head as if he could not believe what had happened, he looked through the man’s shoulderbag. Among the items he found were a small can of TM and a handcuff-band dispenser. He rolled Simmons over on his face, put his wrists together behind his back, and wrapped the long sticky band to secure his wrists together. Then he propped Simmons up with his back against the bottom box of a pile.
Simmons coughed, grimaced with pain, and opened his dark-brown eyes.
Duncan tenderly rubbed his sore jaw and said, “You’ve been injected with some kind of anti-TM.”
He put it as a statement of fact, not a question.
“Yes,” Simmons said. “And I almost got you.”
Duncan took two steps forward but not close enough to be within reach of Simmons’s boots. Looking down, he said, “I’m not your enemy unless you persist in being mine. I TMed you because there was no other way to get the truth out of you. Now it looks as if I’m stymied unless you cooperate.”
Simmons glared at him.
“You know I can resist the effects of TM?” Duncan said. “I can lie while unconscious?”
Simmons nodded.
“Then you’re in no danger if I’m caught. I won’t betray you. Only you know I’m here, and only I know your ID. If I’m TMed, I can deny knowing anything about you. In any event, you’re going to tell me everything.”
Simmons said, “Why should I?”
“If you won’t tell me who your immediate superior is, you’ll die. Now and here. I mean it. I may as well tell you that I plan to take over the OMC. It’s been a quiescent and futile organization, but it’s not going to be so anymore.”
Simmons snarled, and he said, “You don’t know what we have in mind!”
“True. But I intend to find out what it is, if anything. However, it’s going to be a lot harder than I’d thought. You have anti-TM, and therefore your superior must have it. But those in rank below you don’t have it. Why is that?”
He was thinking while he waited for Simmons to reply. Only an obweek ago, he had used TM on his grandfather, Gilbert Immerman, alias the World Councillor David Ananda. Immerman had not been able to resist the TM. Yet he was the head of OMC and probably many other similar subversive groups. Why had he not been injected with anti-TM?
Simmons spoke then. He was no fool; he did not want to die.
“Very well. The anti-TM, we call it A-TM, was developed in a Manhattan laboratory by an allied group. Probably the one you belonged to when you were Caird. A package arrived here late last Tuesday. It was supposed to be given out only to the very highest officials of the OMC of every day. I didn’t know anything then about Ananda, nor that he was in the La Brea Tower. Apparently, he had not yet been injected, why I don’t know. Maybe his A-TM had been sent to Zurich through a secret route, but he was in L.A. on the emergency concerning you and Snick. Anyway, it was obvious that he had not yet been injected. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have been able to use TM on him.
“Ironic, isn’t it? If he had not waited, he would have been immune. And you’d never have gotten out of him how to send your messages via the override-circuit device.”
“I suppose,” Duncan said, “you don’t know who your superior is. He’s always been masked and robed when you met him?”
“Until this morning,” Simmons said. “He revealed his ID after we’d both been injected with the A-TM. He said we didn’t have to worry about interrogation any longer.”
“There are other methods to make a man talk,” Duncan said.
“They’re illegal.”
Duncan smiled. “Sure. Who is this person?”
Simmons’s facial muscles seemed to congeal. He said, “He
…”
“It’s hard to conquer old habits,” Duncan said. “But you can do it.”
He looked at his wristwatch. It was 10:39. By 11:30, most of the city would be getting ready to go into its stoners. Shortly after midnight, Wednesday’s citizens would step out of their cylinders. Meanwhile, Snick and the Cloyds and Jaccoud would be sweating anxiety. Jaccoud had to get back to her apartment before midnight. The Cloyds did not have to worry about being stoned then because Wednesday’s tenants were also OMC. But the impatient and edgy Snick might go to Erlend’s apartment in search of him, dangerous though that would be. Or she might decide that the ganks had gotten him and get the hell out of L.A. No, she would not do that until she knew what had happened to him.
“I can’t take you to him,” Simmons said. He straightened out his arms to stretch and winced with pain.
“I understand that. Just tell me what I want to know. What I do after that…”
Simmons’ face looked as if it were being squeezed in a vise. His mouth opened; but he could not speak. Fear and reluctance plugged up his throat.
“You have to,” Duncan said. He pointed the progun at Simmons.
“I’ll burn off your toes one by one until you talk. I won’t take any pleasure in doing it, but I’ll do it. If I have to take off only one toe, I’ll have to kill you. You won’t be able to make up a story about your mutilations that’ll satisfy your superiors. I don’t want them to know about this, so I’ll just kill you after you’ve spilled your guts, and you will. Your murder will be another in the list of unsolved cases.”
“All right, I’ll tell you!” Simmons said shrilly.
Duncan tried not to show his relief. He thought that he was capable of carrying out his threats, but he could not be sure until he had to do it. He certainly did not wish to torture this man even if he had been instrumental in the attempted killing of Duncan and Snick and the slaying of Cabtab.
“He’s Eugene Godwin Diszno, today’s chief executive of the L.A. Data Bank! God help me!”
“He won’t be able to do anything to you, I promise that,” Duncan said. “Where does he live?”
He was not surprised at the revelation of Diszno’s position. The person who headed the Data Bank had immense power. He would be able to insert false data into the bank with little difficulty and be the least likely to be caught doing it. Mark Twain had once written, “Show me the superstitions of a nation, and I’ll control that nation.” The truth was that the person who controlled the information flow of a nation controlled that nation. Or, in this case, Los Angeles State. Of course, Diszno had to do what the government ordered, but he could pretty much do what the OMC—or the World Councillor Ananda—wanted and get away with it. Within limits.
Once started, Simmons responded to all of Duncan’s questions. Within five minutes, Duncan had all the information he needed. Or, he reminded himself, thought he needed. There might be some questions he should have asked. When he knew these, it would be too late.
He unwrapped the bands around Simmons’s wrists but stood back while the man rose stiffly. “I didn’t break any ribs, did I?” Duncan said.
“I don’t think so.”
“Don’t forget to preset the feed-in simulations to turn off and erase.”
“I am not incompetent!” Simmons said.
“No, but you’ve got a lot on your mind. Now, remember. You go home, and don’t try to alert Diszno.”
“For God’s sake!” Simmons said. “He’ll kill me!”
“You’re not going to kill Erlend,” Duncan said. “You couldn’t help yourself. Diszno isn’t going to do anything to you or anybody because he can’t. I’ll make sure he won’t.”
However, to be certain that Simmons would not warn Diszno, Duncan knocked him out again with another shot from his gun. Simmons was not going to feel well for a while, but he had to be kept out of action for at least twenty minutes. Having stripped the handcuff-band from Simmons, Duncan left. Ten minutes later, he was standing in front of Diszno’s apartment on the 125th level. Midnight was ten minutes away, and the corridor wallscreens were flashing orange notices and emitting a soft sirenlike sound.
He stepped into the recess of the doorway, where he was no longer visible. Holding the progun close to his belly, he burned out the lock, then punched out the lock mechanism with the butt of the weapon. It fell inside. The plastic of the door had cooled off by then. He inserted three fingers and pulled. The door slid back with considerable resistance into the wall recess. He stepped inside, gun ready. Though the room lights were on, the walls were gray and soundless. He closed the door and walked through two large rooms before coming to the main hall. Swiftly but cautiously, he went down this, stopping to open all doors slightly and looking within. Diszno and family should be in their cylinders, but he could not take that for granted.
Having satisfied himself that all rooms except the stoner chamber were empty, he went into that. After checking the ID plaques on the bases of the cylinders, he turned the dials of Wednesday’s tenants to OFF. Then he turned the dial at the base of Diszno’s stoner to POWER ON.
The data banker was very tall and exceptionally broad-shouldered. His dark skin was streaked with pink where curving depigmented lines had been made. His black hair was in a topknot with a long and thick genuine-silver pin stuck through it. A black goatee, heavily waxed, stuck out from his chin. Two heavy earrings, zigzag-shaped to represent lightning, dragged his ear lobes down. Except for a scarlet bikini, he was nude.
He looked very fashionable and very assured. Bur his jaw dropped and he paled when he saw a man pointing a gun at him. His eyes widened with wonder and fear.
“I’m William St. George Duncan, also known as Jefferson Cervantes Caird. Let’s go into the living room and talk.”
Stiffly, his head and neck shaking, Diszno preceded Duncan from the room.
13
The time flashing on the wallscreen was 1:10 a.m., Wednesday.
Four people sat in the living room, Eugene Diszno, his wife, named Olga Khan Sarahsdaughter, and the two adult Wednesday tenants, Rajit Belleporte Mayfair and Maya Dibrun Lutter. As soon as Duncan had pried out of Diszno that his wife and the next day’s residents were members of OMC, he had destoned them.
He had also gotten Diszno to admit that he was the overall head of the organization in this area. That had not come until Duncan had threatened to burn off Diszno’s toes and fingers. By now, Duncan also knew the names of all the higher officials in OMC in L.A. Most of them were gank or data bank executives.
Duncan had told Diszno that he was taking over the OMC.
“You don’t like it, I can see,” Duncan said. “But the time for lying low and doing little is over. My messages have caused an uproar all over the world, and we must seize the opportunity to make it swell into a rebellion. I’m the one who should naturally lead it, even if I must stay hidden for a while. I have much more experience in active fighting, and my record speaks for itself. I have plans for carrying on the fight. You’ve admitted that you have none.”
“The time isn’t ripe!” Diszno said.
“It’ll never be riper. It’s go-for-broke time. Now, you, all of you, I need your heartfelt agreement that I’ll be the head. Your full cooperation, anyway, even if you are resentful that I’ve taken over and are fearful of the consequences. You have been futting around too long. You’ve gotten the benefits of the age-slowing factor and now the anti-TM. You must pay for those.
“There’s a new setup now. All of the members of OMC must be given the ASF and the A-TM. You’ve been very selfish in keeping those just for the high echelon, the elitists. You were stupid to do it, anyway. How could a lower-echelon person lie to the ganks if he’s caught? He’d eventually betray you. And there’s nothing for ensuring loyalty and gratitude like endowing a member with the ASF.
“Now, I’ve given the formula for the ASF in my message, and you can bet that the citizens are going to get it even if they have to do so illegally. If we can figure out
a way to get the information about the anti-TM to the public, we’ll do that, too.”
“The government controls all the laboratories,” Diszno said.
“That didn’t stop the immers from making it for their people,” Duncan said. “The basis of ASF is a mutated true-breeding bacteria. It can be cultured in any kitchen and then easily injected. The problem is getting the ASF to enough people so that they can give it to others. But that’s going to occur without the OMC doing much about it. There’ll be lots of people all over the world who’ll steal from the labs if they have to and mutate the bacteria and culture them. The idea that they can extend their lives by seven is going to make people wild to get ASF. The government will fight against it, but it’ll have to give in eventually. If it doesn’t, it’ll fall.”
“And we’ll be martyrs,” Diszno’s wife, Olga Sarahsdaughter, said.
“Maybe not. It’s possible, but we can’t back away because we might be martyrs.”
Duncan had made his points several times. Now, he went on to practical matters. How soon could Diszno get IDs for him and Snick?
Though reluctant to do it, Diszno said that Maya Lutter could arrange that immediately. However, the physical paraphernalia that went with the IDs would take a while. Possibly, they could be delivered by evening of today. Diszno and Sarahsdaughter would stay destoned today, but Mayfair and Maya Lutter had to go to their offices. They had no viable excuse for calling in and staying home. But they would be able to arrange for the physical paraphernalia. Diszno would set up the insertion of false data since he could do it from the apartment, and he could do it even if today was not his legal day.
He also arranged for Duncan to make an untraceable call to the apartment in which Duncan had left Snick and the Cloyds. Duncan had not wanted to reveal the residence. But he knew that he had to go back to it.
A good-looking redhead answered his call to the Cloyds’ apartment. He recognized her as Lucia Shoremoor Claving, one of Wednesday’s two tenants. As he had expected, she was fully informed of the situation up to the time he had left the apartment. She gestured, and the Cloyds and Snick came into view. Snick looked very relieved to see him. Then she became angry.