Navvy slowed and Movius began to consider the implications of the fight. He called out softly, “How did they know where to find us?”
Navvy stopped, wiped perspiration from his forehead. “I’ve been thinking about that, too. I think someone spotted you talking to Clancy.”
“Oh?”
“And they made Clancy talk.”
“How much did Clancy know?”
“Only that I was going to meet my friends near that sewer service dome.”
“Fine friends!”
“They may have been picked up.”
“And Clancy didn’t know anything else?”
Navvy shook his head. “Not even where we meet. He’s new.”
“What will they do to Clancy?”
“A body in the river. He knew the chance he took.”
Movius thought about Clancy, quick-moving, alive. Now a dead thing in the river. So that’s the kind of a fight it is? But I knew that. In a subdued tone, he said, “Let’s go.”
They stayed in the tunnels, first on one level, then another. Twice they smelled the residue of chlorine. The tunnel opened finally into another boiler room, from there into a smaller storage room occupied by five people, four men and a woman. The room pulsed with a faint vibration which made him uneasy, his skin tingly. Then he recognized it—he was near an unmounted scrambler, a portable one. No spy beam could penetrate this room. It wouldn’t even react to the room. No room. He was almost close enough to touch the people before he recognized the woman as the mouse-creature who had directed him here—Grace London. Strange that he had remembered her as sallow, grey. Her face held a clean, lively look now. And her hair was out of the bun, rolling back softly from her forehead. She wasn’t beautiful, but she had something. He decided the word was vitality.
An old man stood beside her. That would be Navvy’s father, Quilliam London. The old man snorted. “You gave us a scare.”
“What happened to our escort?” asked Navvy.
“I sent Bowden and Ladde,” said Quilliam London. “They were picked up by a patrol. That stupid Bowden had a grease pencil in his pocket with some grit from a concrete wall still in it. They knew what he’d been writing on the walls.”
Navvy paled. “Did they take them in for . . .”
“They tried to fight their way out of it,” said Quilliam London. “Now we need two more couriers.” He turned to Movius. “Good to see you, Mr. Movius. Won’t you sit down?”
Come into my parlour, thought Movius. He had an instant feeling of dislike for the old man. Too cold about those poor couriers.
Quilliam London motioned for Navvy to pull out folding chairs from a corner of the storage room. A flickering orange glow from the open door of the boiler room washed over the old man’s face as he turned. It gave him a hawk-like, demoniacal look. The others in the room moved closer and Movius saw that one of those he had thought to be a man actually was another woman, a flat-chested giant . . . Eyes widening, he recognized her. The cook. Marie something, from the Warren. The one who had silenced the LP tough. Movius nodded to her.
“Sit down,” said Quilliam London. Movius took one of the chairs. The old man bent his stiff frame into a chair opposite and scratched at his chin. “My son here is a very discerning young man, Mr. Movius. He feels you would be valuable to our cause. For that reason, I’ve gathered here some people whose information you will find interesting. First, Mr. Janus Peterson.” London sounded vaguely like the announcer at the festival shows.
A beefy, muscular man on Movius’ right hitched a chair forward. As the man moved closer, Movius saw that he was built like a barrel, with really tremendous girth. Janus Peterson. He had large, wide-set blue eyes which blinked rapidly before he spoke. A flat nose gave him the look of a fighter.
Peterson’s eyes blinked like shutters. “Mr. Movius, my brother-in-law works in Bu-Labor.” The voice was husky. “He’s a kind of a clerk. He give me this today.” The men extended a piece of paper. Movius took the paper, glanced at it, looked back to Peterson. The man said, “That’s a carbon of an order sent out to Bu-Supply today. It says to get an issue of Arctic clothing ready for a Daniel Movius who is going into the ALP. That’s your number, ain’t it?”
Movius looked at the number. Yes, it was his. He nodded. So this was the LP grapevine. Efficient. He gave Navvy a searching look. Navvy winked at him.
Quilliam London grasped the arm of a man at his right, leaned forward. “This is Arthur VanDyne. He’s in Bu-Labor.” Again that vague suggestion of a man announcing the next act. Something a little off-beat here.
Arthur VanDyne was a pale-faced, frightened-looking little man who sat on the edge of his chair, knees close together. “I’m a file clerk, Mr. Movius,” he said. The man’s voice was high-pitched, squeaky. “Sometimes when I’m working in the files I hear things. They’re high, the files, you understand, and if someone is on the other side of the files, in the other aisle, talking, you can hear them quite well if you put your ear to the metal.”
Movius had a mental picture of Arthur VanDyne with his pale, frightened face bent close to a filing case, listening. It was a disquieting picture, somehow. He wondered how many there were like this. Frightened. Listening.
VanDyne cleared his throat in a precise manner, found a handkerchief and dabbed at his lips. “I heard two of the confidential clerks talking today.” He replaced the handkerchief in a pocket, clasped his hands in his lap. “They’re the ones who work directly out of the chief’s office. One said, ‘We got this order out of the Sorter today, but the chief said to lose it for about six weeks. Why do you suppose he wants us to do that?’ And the other one said, ‘Don’t ask too many questions. What’s the guy’s name?’ Then the first one said, ‘Daniel Movius, number . . .’” He fumbled in a pocket. “Here, I wrote it down.”
Movius took the paper. It was his number.
VanDyne went on: “Then the second one asked, ‘Where’s he going?’ And the first one said, ‘CR-14 in Bu-Trans, whatever that is.’ And that’s all I know, Mr. Movius.”
“We’ve already met, haven’t we, Mr. Movius?” It was the big cook, still with that casual look of authority the cooks had.
Movius nodded, wondering what connection she had with this business. One thing sure—she’d saved him from a nasty time back there in the Warren dining room.
“My sister is in Bu-Trans,” said the woman. “Her name is Tyle Cotton and she works in the armory, passing out weapons. She used to be . . .” The woman paused, wet her lips with her tongue.
“She used to run his bedroom,” the cook said. “That was before she got blocky like me. Gerard’s a big-headed little squirt, bald as an egg, really little, but he likes his women large. The bigger the better, but curvy, not square.” Again the cook wet her lips with her tongue. “My sister hates Gerard; and she’s been working with the head of CR-14, Rafe Newton, to get Gerard.”
“Oh?” That agreed with what O’Brien had said.
“CR-14 is the spy outfit for the government,” said the woman. “It’s really important. It used to be Gerard’s ace in the hole; now he’s losing it.”
“What’s this have to do with me?” asked Movius.
Quilliam London extended a long, bony finger, tapped Movius on the knee. “Gerard fed some job specifications into the Sorter today. He doesn’t know yet, as Arthur here pointed out, that your card came up fitting those specifications. He will know it, though, given time.”
“About six weeks?” asked Movius.
London nodded, scratched his chin. “If you report for work, Gerard is going to give you the job of cleaning out this Department CR-14.”
“Just like that?”
“You fit his specifications.” London narrowed his eyes almost to slits. “You know what we are, of course?”
“You’re Seps.”
“That’s right. Can you imagine how valuable it would be to us to have a man in the government’s spy organization?”
“I have a rough idea.” Movius g
lanced at Navvy standing behind his father. “Can you hide me?”
Quilliam London said, “I believe so.”
“There’s one thing still not clear to me,” said Movius. “Why did Glass do this to me?”
The old man stood up, unbending slowly. He looked like a knobby walking stick. “Mr. Glass wanted your fiancée. We have found that Mr. Glass usually gets what he wants and keeps it until he is tired of it.”
That was what O’Brien had said. It must be true then. Movius felt more confidence in the LP grapevine than he had in O’Brien. Helmut Glass! You want somebody’s woman? You just flick a little finger and that somebody falls over dead. Not yet, Helmut!
“What kind of an organization do you have?” asked Movius.
London put his thick-veined hands on his knees. “We don’t have anything worthy of the name.”
“But the Separatist . . .”
“A great many disjointed, bitter people from Cairo to Kalamazoo, but without any binding force.”
Movius let a glance flick over the people around him. “What do you do?”
“These are my students,” said Quilliam London. “I have a class in semantics. I teach people how to avoid the controlling influences of others. It’s largely a matter of discovering what the other person actually wants.”
“Why do you do it?”
A kind of fire came into London’s eyes, like the moving orange light from the boiler room behind him. The other people in the room stirred restlessly. Grace London coughed.
“I’m going to beat them,” said the old man. “Now we’re a herd following the whim of their loaded questions. When we start seeing through their questions to the things they secretly want, their days are numbered.”
“And I can help in this?”
London permitted a slight touch of scorn to creep into his voice. “That should be obvious from the trouble we’ve taken on your behalf.”
“How do I fit into this?”
“You’re an expert at influencing people,” said London.
It was not the answer Movius had expected. “Me?”
“Yes. The Liaitor. You smoothed the way between differing groups. You influenced people who were themselves experts at influencing people. You made people see things your way, somewhere between their two opposed stands. You influenced them.”
“I’d never thought of it that way.”
London’s eyes widened. “Then how did you operate?”
“I’d just sit down and listen to what the people had to say and, somehow, a compromise they’d accept always occurred to me.”
“I see.” The way Quilliam London said it made it plain he didn’t see, but that he would let it go. “What do you know about Bu-Psych?”
Did he imagine it or did the room suddenly become tense. Maybe they had seen O’Brien’s driver let him out. Perhaps this was the point to tell them about the visit with O’Brien. Yes, this was the place. He told them.
“And he knew I’d seen you in the Warren?” asked Grace London, her voice flat.
Movius looked at her. She didn’t seem surprised. “That’s right.”
Quilliam London’s voice broke in, too eager. “We’ve a spy of our own to find.” He looked around at Navvy. “Get on that right away, Navvy.”
“Yes.” Navvy didn’t look at his father.
“Perhaps some planted information,” said Movius. “Trace it out the other end.”
“What I had in mind,” said London.
They didn’t seem very concerned, thought Movius. It’s no wonder they’ve never made any progress. All theory and no action. They need someone to pull things together. With some good organization, O’Brien would never be able to get a line on them.
He said, “And you’ve no master coordination at all?” Still it seemed almost unbelievable.
“None.”
Again Movius thought they became tense.
Quilliam London said, “The Separatist movement is contained in the massive unrest of the populace. There are other schools such as mine. I’ve heard rumors. Auckland, Berlin, Paris . . . But it is well for one person not to know too much. Bu-Con has sharp eyes and large ears.”
This could be pulled together into a tight organization, thought Movius. He stood up, went to the door of the boiler room, turned. “Navvy.” How different the name sounded here in the car.
“Yes, sir.” Still the air.
“Could your friends smuggle my things out of the other Warren?”
“Is it necessary?”
Was it necessary? Movius clenched, unclenched his firsts. “I’ve personal papers, reports, notes and other things I’ll be needing.”
“Right.” Another silence. Navvy pulled at his lower lip. “Needing for what?”
Movius ignored the question, returned to his chair. “How could I have remained so blind.”
“Protective coloration,” said London.
“What?”
“In a world where seeing too much is dangerous, blindness is a virtue.”
In that moment, the old man reminded Movius of his own father. Too bad they’d never met. Movius stood up, pounding a fist into the palm of his hand. No coordination. No organization. Nothing with which to strike back. He felt angry with these people. So much they could have done and they’d done absolutely nothing. “Why don’t you have an organization?”
“We’ve never had anyone with the drive and ability to lead us,” said Quilliam London.
Again that tense stillness in the room.
No one to lead them. It was as though they were asking him to take over. Movius returned to the boiler room door, looked at the dancing flame. I’d have to play it delicately, more delicately than anything I met as Liaitor. In the orange flame he seemed to see an image of Helmut Glass. It brought a quick knotting of hate. Movius turned slowly, strode back to Quilliam London. “All right, London.” His voice had the old commanding power of the Liaitor, but with overtones of violence he’d never suspected were in him. “I’ve just put the question, cast the opp and polled myself into your job.”
The old man nodded. “Good.”
“Under my own conditions,” said Movius.
“Yes?” The hunter’s eyes seemed to be watching him, ready to pounce.
“We’ll run things my way. No organization! I’m going to organize. No coordination! I’m going to coordinate. I’m the new Sep coordinator. And maybe . . .”
Quilliam London leaned toward him. “Maybe what?”
“Nothing. We’re going to blast those High-Opps right out of their seats!”
“That’s what we had in mind,” said London.
“You accept?” He had expected an argument.
The old man’s smile was reserved. “You leave us no choice.”
Movius looked away, turned back to Navvy. “Where are you going to hide me?”
Navvy looked down at his father.
“Best get him settled,” said Quilliam London.
“Right away, father.” To Movius, “This way, sir.”
Still that damned sir, thought Movius.
It was a hidden room a few feet into the tunnel. They had to squirm over the tops of pipes, wriggle sideways through an opening hardly more than a crack. Navvy dropped a black curtain, clicked a switch. A single light illuminated an oblong cell about fourteen feet by eight. The shadow of an alcove was a black square at the opposite end of the room.
“We tapped the conduits for power,” said Navvy. “There’s a washroom of sorts in the alcove down there.” He held back the entrance curtain. “See you tomorrow.” Before Movius could protest, he was gone.
There was a canvas cot with two blankets. Movius turned off the light, undressed in the dark, put the stolen gun atop his clothes and placed the pile of them beside the cot. The blankets were rough against his skin, not like the smooth sheets of his apartment. His apartment!
Low-opped!
There still were so many unanswered questions. Well, tomorrow. He put a hand to his jaw where the
man had kicked him. With a fierce vindictiveness, he hoped he’d hit the gunman too hard above the bridge of the nose. Okashi had said it would kill a man.
Something had gone out of him about the time of the flight. The last of the numbness had been replaced by an electric tension. Active hate. Not the standard brand at all.
I’m going to get your job, Glass! From now on things are going to be run for Daniel Movius!
He let his hand drop to the floor beside the cot, felt the outline of the gun he had taken from the fallen thuggee. It gave him a sense of power and recalled something he’d read in one of his father’s books.
“To make a revolution one must have monstrous inequality, suppression of freedom until the people think of little else. Then there must be someone with that vital spark needed to unify a movement. With that person there must be a belief that nothing is of importance except his cause.”
Nothing else of importance.
He fell asleep on the thought, hand touching the gun.
Chapter 5
Helmut Glass—The Coor—reclined on a couch in his apartment, one hand touching a frosted drink on the floor beside him. An atmosphere of Romanesque indolence hovered about him. Part of it was the way he spoke to the two men standing about ten feet from the couch; spoke to them, but never looked at them while he spoke.
“So you missed him.” It was a statement, not a question.
One of the standing men stirred. “He walked around the corner from the Warren and when we got there this car was just pulling away. We couldn’t catch the number of it. Something was over the number.”
“And you didn’t recognize the people in the car?” The Coor lifted his head, took a sip of his drink, still not looking at the two men.
“Couldn’t even see them.”
Glass replaced his drink on the floor, wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “What happened when he came to the Warren?”
The man who had been speaking, looked to his companion, back to The Coor. “He met a woman.”