"It wouldn't fool anybody, you dolt!"
McKie appeared to hesitate, said: "Well, the public doesn't know the inner machinery of how we change the Bureau's command. Perhaps it's time we opened up."
"Joij, before I could fire you there'd have to be a reason so convincing that...Just forget it."
The fat pouches beneath McKie's eyes lifted until the eyes were mere slits. The crucial few moments had arrived. He had managed to smuggle a Jicuzzi stim into this office past all of Watt's detectors, concealing the thing's detectable radiation core within an imitation of the lapel badge that Bureau agents wore.
"In Lieu of Red Tape," McKie said and touched the badge with a finger, feeling the raised letters there—"ILRT." The touch focused the radiation core onto the metallic dust scattered over the desktop.
Watt gripped the arms of the chair, studying McKie with a new look of wary tension.
"We are under legal injunction to keep hands off the Tax Watchers," Watt said. "Anything that happens to those people or to their project for scuttling us—even legitimate accidents— will be laid at our door. We must be able to defend ourselves. No one who has ever been connected with us dares fall under the slightest suspicion of complicity."
"How about a floor waxed to dangerous slickness in the path of one of their messengers? How about a doorlock changed to delay—"
"Nothing."
McKie stared at his chief. Everything depended now on the man holding very still. He knew Watt wore detectors to warn him of concentrated beams of radiation. But this Jicuzzi stim had been rigged to diffuse its charge off the metallic dust on the desk and that required several seconds of relative quiet.
The men held themselves rigid in the staredown until Watt began to wonder at the extreme stillness of McKie's body. The man was even holding his breath!
McKie took a deep breath, stood up.
"I warn you, Joij," Watt said.
"Warn me?"
"I can restrain you by physical means if necessary."
"Clint, old enemy, save your breath. What's done is done."
A smile touched McKie's wide mouth. He turned, crossed to the room's only door, paused there, hand on knob.
"What have you done?" Watt exploded.
McKie continued to look at him.
"Watt's scalp began itching madly. He put a hand there, felt a long tangle of...tendrils! They were lengthening under his fingers, growing out of scalp, waving and writhing.
"A Jicuzzi stim," Watt breathed.
McKie let himself out, closed the door.
Watt leaped out of his chair, raced to the door.
Locked!
He knew McKie and didn't try unlocking it. Frantically, Watt slapped a molecular dispersion wad against the door, dived through as the wad blasted. He landed in the outer hall, stared first in one direction, then the other.
The hall was empty.
Watt sighed. The tendrils had stopped growing, but they were long enough now that he could see them writhing past his eyes—a rainbow mass of wrigglers, part of himself. And McKie with the original stim was the only one who could reverse the process—unless Watt were willing to spend an interminable time with the Jicuzzi themselves. No. That was out of the question.
Watt began assessing his position.
The stim tendrils couldn't be removed surgically, couldn't be tied down or contained in any kind of disguise without endangering the person afflicted with them. Their presence would hamper him, too, during the critical time of trouble with the Tax Watchers. How could he appear in conferences and interviews with these things writhing in their Medusa dance on his head? It would be laughable! He'd be an object of comedy.
And if McKie could stay out of the way until a Case of Exchangement was brought before the full Cabinet... But, no! Watt shook his head. This wasn't the kind of sabotage that required a change of command in the Bureau. This was a gross thing. No subtlety to it. This was like a practical joke.Clownish.
But McKie was noted for his clownish attitude, his irreverence for all the blundering self-importance of government.
Have I been self-important? Watt wondered.
In all honesty, he had to admit it.
I'll have to submit my resignation today, he thought. Right after I fire McKie. One look at me and there'll be no doubt of why I did it. This is about as convincing a reason as you could find.
Watt turned to his right, headed for the lab to see if they could help him bring this wriggling mass under control.
The President will want me to stay at the helm until McKie makes his next mover Watt thought. I have to be able to function somehow.
McKie waited in the living room of the Achusian mansion with ill-concealed unease. Achus was the administrative planet for the Vulpecula region, an area of great wealth, and this room high on a mountaintop commanded a natural view to the southwest across lesser peaks and foothills misted in purple by a westering G3 sun.
But McKie ignored the view, trying to watch all comers of the room at once. He had seen a fifth-gender Pan-Spechi here in company with the fourth-gender ego-holder. That could only mean the creche with its three dormants was nearby. By all accounts, this was a dangerous place for someone not protected by bonds of friendship and community of interest.
The value of the Pan-Spechi to the universal human society in which they participated was beyond question. What other species had such refined finesse in deciding when to hinder and when to help? Who else could send a key member of its group into circumstances of extreme peril without fear that the endangered one's knowledge would be lost?
There was always a dormant to take up where the lost one had left off.
Still, the Pan-Spechi did have their idiosyncrasies. And their hungers were at times bizarre.
"Ahhh, McKie."
The voice, deep and masculine, came from his left. McKie whirled to study the figure that came through a door carved from a single artificial emerald of glittering creme de menthe colors.
The speaker was humanoid but with Pan-Spechi multifaceted eyes. He appeared to be a terranic man (except for the blue-green eyes) of an indeterminate, well-preserved middle age. The body suggested a certain daintiness in its yellow tights and singlet. The head was squared in outline with close-cropped blond hair, a fleshy chunk of nose and thick splash of mouth.
"Panthor Bolin here," the Pan-Spechi said. "You are welcome in my home, Joij McKie."
McKie relaxed slightly. Pan-Spechi were noted for honoring hospitality once it was extended... provided the guest didn't violate their mores.
"I'm honored that you've agreed to see me," McKie said.
"The honor is mine," Bolin said. "We've long recognized you as a person whose understanding of the Pan-Spechi is most subtle and penetrating. I've longed for the chance to have uninhibited conversation with you. And here you are." He indicated a chairdog against the wall to his right, snapped his fingers. The semi-sentient artifact glided to a position behind McKie. "Please be seated."
McKie, his caution realerted by Bolin's reference to "uninhibited conversation," sank into the chairdog, patting it until it assumed the contours he wanted.
Bolin took a chairdog facing him, leaving only about a meter separating their knees.
"Have our egos shared nearness before?" McKie asked. "You appeared to recognize me."
"Recognition goes deeper than ego" Bolin said. "Do you wish to join identities and explore this question?"
McKie wet his lips with his tongue. This was delicate ground with the Pan-Spechi, whose one ego moved somehow from member to member of the unit group as they traversed their circle of being.
"I... ah... not at this time," McKie said.
"Well spoken," Bolin said. "Should you ever change your mind, my ego-group would consider it a most signal honor. Yours is a strong identity, one we respect."
"I'm... most honored," McKie said. He rubbed nervously at his jaw, recognizing the dangers in this conversation. Each Pan- Spechi group maintained a supremely jea
lous attitude of and about its wandering ego. The ego imbued the holder of it with a touchy sense of honor. Inquiries about it could be carried out only through such formula questions as McKie already had asked.
Still, if this were a member of the pent-archal life circle containing the missing saboteur extraordinary Napoleon Bildoon... if it were, much would be explained.
"You're wondering if we really can communicate," Bolin said. McKie nodded.
"The concept of humanity," Bolin said, "—our term for it would translate approximately as comsentiency—has been extended to encompass many differing shapes, life systems and methods of mentation. And yet we have never been sure about this question. It's one of the major reasons many of us have adopted your life-shape and much of your metabolism. We wished to experience your strengths and your weaknesses. This helps...but is not an absolute solution."
"Weaknesses?" McKie, suddenly wary.
"Ahhh-hummm," Bolin said. "I see. To allay your suspicions I will have translated for you soon one of our major works. Its title would be, approximately, The Developmental Influence of Weaknesses. One of the strongest sympathetic bonds we have with your species, for example, is the fact that we both originated as extremely vulnerable surface-bound creatures, whose most sophisticated defense came to be the social structure."
"I'll be most interested to see the translation," McKie said.
"Do you wish more amenities or do you care to state your business now?" Bolin asked.
"I was... ah... assigned to seek out a missing agent of our Bureau" McKie said, "to be certain no harm has befallen this ... ah... agent."
"Your avoidance of gender is most refined," Bolin said. "I appreciate the delicacy of your position and your good taste. I will say this for now: the Pan-Spechi you seek is not at this time in need of your assistance. Your concern, however, is appreciated. It will be communicated to those upon whom it will have the most influence."
"That's a great relief to me," McKie said. And he wondered: What did he really mean by that? This thought elicited another, and McKie said: "Whenever I run into this problem of communication between species I'm reminded of an old culture/ teaching story."
"Oh?" Bolin registered polite curiosity.
"Two practitioners of the art of mental healing, so the story goes, passed each other every morning on their way to their respective offices. They knew each other, but weren't on intimate terms. One morning as they approached each other, one of them turned to the other and said, 'Good morning/ The one greeted failed to respond, but continued toward his office. Presently, though, he stopped, turned and stared at the retreating back of the man who'd spoken, musing to himself: 'Now what did he really mean by that?'"
Bolin began to chuckle, then laugh. His laughter grew louder and louder until he was holding his sides.
It wasn 't that funny; McKie thought.
Bolin's laughter subsided. "A very educational story," he said. "I'm deeply indebted to you. This story shows your awareness of how important it is in communication that we be aware of the other's identity."
Does it? McKie wondered. How's that?
And McKie found himself caught up by his knowledge of how the Pan-Spechi could pass a single ego-identity from individual to individual within the life circle group of five distinct protoplasmic units. He wondered how it felt when the ego- holder gave up the identity to become the fifth gender, passing the ego spark to a newly matured unit from the creche. Did the fifth gender willingly become the creche nurse and give itself up as a mysterious identity-food for the three dormants in the creche? he wondered.
"I heard about what you did to Secretary of Sabotage Clinton Watt" Bolin said. "The story of your dismissal from the service preceded you here."
"Yes," McKie said. "That's why I'm here, too."
"You've penetrated to the fact that our Pan-Spechi community here on Achus is the heart of the Tax Watchers' organization," Bolin said. "It was very brave of you to walk right into our hands. I understand how much more courage it takes for your kind to face unit extinction than it does for our kind. Admirable! You are indeed a prize."
McKie fought down a sensation of panic, reminding himself that the records he had left in his private locker at Bureau headquarters could be deciphered in time even if he did not return.
"Yes," Bolin said, "you wish to satisfy yourself that the ascension of a Pan-Spechi to the head of your Bureau will pose no threat to other human species. This is understandable."
McKie shook his head to clear it. "Do you read minds?" he demanded.
"Telepathy is not one of our accomplishments," Bolin said, his voice heavy with menace. "I do hope that was a generalized question and in no way directed at the intimacies of my ego- group."
"I felt that you were reading my mind," McKie said, tensing himself for defense.
"That was how I interpreted the question," Bolin said. "Forgive my question. I should not have doubted your delicacy or your tact."
"You do hope to place a member in the job of Bureau Secretary, though?" McKie said.
"Remarkable that you should've suspected it," Bolin said. "How can you be sure our intention is not merely to destroy the Bureau?"
"I'm not," McKie glanced around the room, regretting that he had been forced to act alone.
"Where did we give ourselves away?" Bolin mused.
"Let me remind you," McKie said, "that I have accepted the hospitality you offered and that I've not offended your mores."
"Most remarkable," Bolin said. "In spite of all the temptations I offered, you have not offended our mores. This is true. You are an embarrassment, indeed you are. But perhaps you have a weapon. Yes?"
McKie lifted a wavering shape from an inner pocket.
"Ahhh, the Jicuzzi stim," Bolin said. "Now, let me see, is that a weapon?"
McKie held the shape on his palm. It appeared flat at first, like a palm-sized sheet of pink paper. Gradually, the flatness grew a superimposed image of a tube laid on its surface, then another image of an S-curved spring that coiled and wound around the tube.
"Our species can control its shape to some extent," Bolin said. "There's some question on whether I can consider this a weapon."
McKie curled his fingers around the shape, squeezed. There came a pop, and fumeroles of purple light emerged between his fingers accompanied by an odor of burnt sugar.
"Exit stim," McKie said. "Now I'm completely defenseless, entirely dependent upon your hospitality."
"Ah, you are a tricky one," Bolin said. "But have you no regard for Ser Clinton Watt? To him, the change you forced upon him is an affliction. You've destroyed the instrument that might have reversed the process."
"He can apply to the Jicuzzi," McKie said, wondering why Bolin should concern himself over Watt.
"Ah, but they will ask your permission to intervene," Bolin said. "They are so formal. Drafting their request should take at least three standard years. They will not take the slightest chance of offending you. And you, of course, cannot volunteer your permission without offending them. You know, they may even build a nerve-image of you upon which to test their petition. You are not a callous person, McKie, in spite of your clownish poses. I'd not realized how important this confrontation was to you."
"Since I'm completely at your mercy," McKie said, "would you try to stop me from leaving here?"
"An interesting question," Bolin said. "You have information I don't want revealed at this time. You're aware of this, naturally?"
"Naturally."
"I find the Constitution a most wonderful document," Bolin said. "The profound awareness of the individual's identity and its relationship to society as a whole. Of particular interest is the portion dealing with the Bureau of Sabotage, those amendments recognizing that the Bureau itself might at times need ... ah... adjustment."
Now what's he driving at? McKie wondered. And he noted how Bolin squinted his eyes in thought, leaving only a thin line of faceted glitter.
"I shall speak now as chief office
r of the Tax Watchers," Bolin said, "reminding you that we are legally immune from sabotage."
I've found out what I wanted to know, McKie thought. Now if I can only get out of here with it!
"Let us consider the training of saboteurs extraordinary," Bolin said. "What do the trainees learn about the make-work and featherbedding elements in Bureau activity?"
He's not going to trap me in a lie, McKie thought. "We come right out and tell our trainees that one of our chief functions is to create jobs for the politicians to fill," he said. "The more hands in the pie, the slower the mixing."
"You've heard that telling a falsehood to your host is a great breach of Pan-Spechi mores, I see," Bolin said. "You understand, of course, that refusal to answer certain questions is interpreted as a falsehood?"
"So I've been told," McKie said.
"Wonderful! And what are your trainees told about the foot dragging and the monkeywrenches you throw into the path of legislation?"
"I quote from the pertinent training brochure," McKie said. "A major function of the Bureau is to slow passage of legislation."
"Magnificent! And what about the disputes and outright battles Bureau agents have been known to incite?"
"Strictly routine," McKie said. "We're duty-bound to encourage the growth of anger in government wherever we can. It exposes the temperamental types, the ones who can't control themselves, who can't think on their feet."
"Ah," Bolin said. "How entertaining."
"We keep entertainment value in mind," McKie admitted. "We use drama and flamboyance wherever possible to keep our activities fascinating to the public."
"Flamboyant obstructionism," Bolin mused.
"Obstruction is a factor in strength," McKie said. "Only the strongest surmount the obstructions to succeed in government. The strongest... or the most devious, which is more or less the same thing when it comes to government."
"How illuminating," Bolin said. He rubbed the backs of his hands, a Pan-Spechi mannerism denoting satisfaction. "Do you have special instructions regarding political parties?"
"We stir up dissent between them," McKie said. "Opposition tends to expose reality, that's one of our axioms."