My permit was all in order.
The Ford station wagon was running, if a bit oddly.
There would be sparkling campfires in the wilds. And where did Utanc fit in? As a wild girl from the Kara Kum Desert, she, of course, would greatly admire a man who could go out, go bang and bring home game to fill the old stewpot, while she sat beside the campfire. I could just see the adoring look come into her eyes as I came up loaded down with wild canaries or such. The primitive instinct. In my Earth psychology textbooks, it is called atavism. Everybody is a caveman, even though Freud passed a law against it, and gets thrown back to primitive instincts like any other beast or animal. So you see, my hopes were not founded on nothing.
There are also bear to be hunted in Turkey, and while it sounded attractive to drag a bear into camp and stand there and sort of beat my chest to show her what a great hunter I was, bear are pretty tricky things to shoot. If you only graze them, you’ve probably had it. I thought I’d better stick to impressing her with wild canaries—maybe shoot lots of them to make a show.
As I saw it, it was all carefully thought out. I had earned the rest. The Apparatus doesn’t give medals in public so I thought I’d better pin this trip on myself as a sort of substitute for labors well done. I spent two nice days planning it.
Undoubtedly she had forgiven me by this time over the little boy. He was still in her room and so was the other one. But frankly, who cares about a little tap on the nose? You can’t cry about it forever.
I checked with Karagoz. No, Utanc had not come out of her room for two days now. Not since Silva had left.
I listened outside her garden wall. No laughter in the garden.
Ah, well. She really should be cheered up.
I wrote a note. On it I said, “Utanc, you adorable, beautiful creature. You are invited to go on a nice long hunting trip. I will shoot songbirds and you can boil them in the wilds.” I knew it would appeal to her atavism.
I slid it under her door.
Aha! The corner of it vanished instantly!
Breathlessly, I listened. After several minutes, I heard the iron bar lifting.
Success! I knew atavism would be stirred. Throwback to cave days. Works every time!
The knob rattled!
The door swung open!
And suddenly a torrent of everything female you could name started to hurl out of that door at me! Shoes! Cups! A potted plant! A looking glass soared through the air and shattered against the far patio wall!
She was standing there, her nostrils flaring, her hands clenching and unclenching like they wanted to get into some hair!
In pure venom her words lashed out, “You dirty (bleepard)! It’s not enough to ruin forever a beautiful boy! Now, (bleep) you, you want to kill SONGBIRDS!”
A small hand boosted something up behind her. It was a chair!
She launched it at me like a cannon shot! It shattered into splinters!
I only got the edge of it. I ducked into my room.
I had aroused atavism all right. The wrong kind!
I locked my door very thoroughly. I sat down and pondered this.
Amazing as it might seem, she was still upset about that (bleeped) little boy. Imagine it!
Well, women are funny. You really can’t ever tell. I thought she might get over it.
Well, she hadn’t. My first conclusion had been right. She would never forgive me. And all over one (bleeped), useless, small boy.
Gloom settled over me. Actually, it was only Utanc that had motivated my desire for a hunting trip.
PART TWENTY-FIVE
Chapter 2
I wandered into my secret office. I slumped in the chair. The viewer was in front of me, untouched for days. Maybe Heller was in some kind of trouble that would cheer me up. Listlessly I turned it on.
It seemed sort of dim. I turned up the picture gain.
A cathedral!
An awfully big cathedral!
Something was going on.
A funeral!
It was a big crowd. There were gowned priests going through various motions. A choir was singing beautifully.
It fitted squarely in my mood. What soulful music! So sad. So beautifully sad!
Heller was sitting on a bench. He was holding somebody’s hand. Somebody in a black veil. Babe Corleone! She was sobbing! Heller patted her hand.
There was some sort of casket lying in state. Evidently there had been a file-by already.
Then I understood. Jimmy “The Gutter” Tavilnasty. It was his funeral! In possibly the biggest cathedral in America? St. John the Divine? St. Patrick’s? It was awfully big. All gold and glittering candles and high, imposing arches.
The music swelled in majesty.
And here came somebody to a lower altar or pulpit. A choir boy. A hush fell. He was speaking into the great vaulted room, his clear, tenor voice trembling with emotion.
He said, “If it had not been for our dear, departed Jimmy, I never would have learned to let the other boys love me!”
And then he raised his voice in the saddest song I have ever heard. The choir swelled in solemn beauty behind him.
The Latin music faded away. Here came another to the small pulpit, an elderly man, stooped with age.
“As head of the reform school, I counted Jimmy as my friend. My fondest memories of him are those when he organized, all by himself and out of charity, the greatest riots the youth prison has ever experienced. And today, without his coaching, we would have hardly any new prisoners at all. A great man, idol of a thousand street gangs. He will be missed.”
The choir lifted their voices in saintly chords that faded away into the vaulted dome toward heaven.
And here was another man coming to the pulpit. He bowed his head reverently, and there were tears in his voice as he spoke. “I was his prison psychologist many times. Jimmy Tavilnasty was a model patient. I have never seen a man who took to behavior modification therapy so well. He went from bad to worse and finally, under my careful coaching, became the very embodiment of American crime.” His voice broke with emotion. “He was the All American Boy that became the hit man we will never forget.”
The choir swelled in reverence and awe.
Oh, it was beautiful.
The funeral progressed. Eight pallbearers bore the casket. They were dressed in black. They were all Sicilians. They all had bulges where their guns would be beneath their coats.
And then I saw why my screen had been dim. Everyone was wearing heavy, dark glasses, including Heller. I noticed this because the screen got even darker than it had been and once more I had to turn up the brightness. A gloomy, gloomy day! It was raining!
The casket was carried through an arch of switchblades made by twenty street gangs.
At the cemetery, there were wreaths and wreaths and flowers everywhere. A huge horseshoe of lilies had a banner on it:
Jimmy Our Pal
Another stand of flowers was in the shape of a stiletto. Its banner said:
To Jimmy from the Faustino Narcotici Mob
It got kicked down and trampled under solemn feet.
Five chorus girls in widows’ weeds stood weeping at the grave, pressing black handkerchiefs to their sobbing mouths.
The reason for the dark glasses appeared. The whole funeral was being covered by TV crews that had the good grace to wear black armbands at the last. The bands were being handed out by a mobster who held a gun in his other hand.
The huge procession wound down into a crypt. It said:
Family Crypt
Corleone
Jimmy’s casket was slid into a vault. The sobbing was much louder.
Babe’s fingers were trailing over a stone:
“Holy Joe” Corleone
She was breaking down. Heller led her toward a limousine. He gently got her away from people who were trying to touch her hand or kiss her cheek in sympathy. She was really crying hard.
Heller got her in the back. He closed the door. She clung to him.
<
br /> “I’m losing all my boys,” she sobbed.
He patted her gently and gave her another handkerchief. She sat back, more quietly. Bodyguards were gently pushing the crowd away from the car with sawed-off shotguns. At last the limousine was moving.
Babe was clenching and unclenching her hands. They were going across a bridge. “Jerome,” she said brokenly. “I have heard you are learning to drive race cars. Jerome, promise me, please promise me not to do anything dangerous.”
Heller seemed unwilling to speak. Then he said, “Life is a chancy thing, Mrs. Corleone. I cannot promise that.”
She looked at him suddenly. “Good,” she said. “Then if you ever see that god (bleeped) Silva, promise me you’ll rub the (bleepard) out.”
He said he would.
But I was haunted by that cathedral music, the choir boys, the Latin solemnity and tragedy of it all. I turned the viewscreen off.
The music continued to haunt me. How lovely. What a gorgeous funeral.
There crept into my mind the vision of my own funeral.
And there was Utanc kneeling beside my grave, withered flowers in her hand, in the rain. She was weeping because she had been so mean to me.
Oh, what a gorgeous vision. I felt like crying myself.
Dim-eyed, I stumbled into my bedroom.
I collapsed on the bed.
Something was under my head. The operation was still sore but I let it hurt. The vision of Utanc kneeling at my grave was still with me.
The pain hurt worse and I brushed at it because it was interrupting my mood.
Something flew out onto the other pillow. I turned my head.
Face to face, I saw a note. It said:
Just to remind you that idleness don’t pay. Lombar was sure you would slack off. So this serves notice that if you haven’t handled Heller, it will be my duty to terminate you.
It had only a bloody dagger as signature.
Ah, so my vision was going to come true after all.
After a little while, I sat up. The beautiful cathedral music still haunted me.
I picked up the note. The rear side of it was blank.
I found a pen. I wrote on it Go ahead. I signed my name. I left it on the pillow.
It seemed the right thing to do.
Utanc would kneel in the rain. She would be sorry. At least I’d have her precious tears in mud spots on my grave.
I made sure I had no weapons in my pockets.
I walked out across the shattered mess in the patio—how similar it was to my shattered life.
With the cathedral music sounding in my ears, I walked alone through the dusk, hoping for a fatal shot that would end a life that no longer was worth living.
Perhaps, as she wept, she would sing some sad song and realize she should have been much nicer to me while I still lived.
How beautiful.
PART TWENTY-FIVE
Chapter 3
I walked all night and nobody shot me.
In the cold dawn, I went to my bedroom, disappointed.
The note I had left was gone. Whoever it was that had Lombar’s assignment to kill me must be pretty skilled at getting in and out of places, but I had gone all over that.
Exhausted, I got out of my clothes and got into bed. Maybe there was still hope. Maybe I would die in my sleep.
In the late afternoon, I awoke. I was disappointed to find I was still alive.
Somewhat petulantly I turned over to get out of bed.
And there, on the other pillow, not five inches in front of my eyes, was a new note! Maybe it was an apology for not having killed me last night.
I sat up. I disinterestedly turned it right way to.
It said:
While it would be a pleasure to kill you, that isn’t the sequence. If Heller is not stopped, Utanc will be killed first.
A surge of shock went through me!
A scream of protest struggled to escape my constricted throat!
Without even grabbing a towel, I rushed into the patio and pressed my ear to Utanc’s door.
Silence!
Maybe they had killed her already!
I dashed into the yard.
Melahat was cutting some flowers. She averted her eyes.
“Have they killed Utanc?” I demanded.
She stared at me. Then she averted her eyes again. “She was all right a few minutes ago when I took in some towels.”
I wheezed with relief. Then I thought I’d better take precautions. I lifted my head and yelled real loud, “I’m working!”
Maybe that would hold them!
It seemed to confuse Melahat. But this was no time for parlor manners.
I rushed back into my room. I struggled into some clothes. I tried to think. It was difficult. What was the reason for this sudden attack?
They must know something I didn’t know!
Heller. Heller was up to something!
I rushed into my secret room. I turned on the viewer. I braced myself and stood watching it. I couldn’t see it well from that angle. I sat down.
Just some old parts on a table.
He looked up at that moment. He was in his office at the Empire State Building. The office had some people in it. The decor was different!
Ah, the walls. Huge murals of oil refineries decorated the walls now. They were in color. They were belching smoke. Vast vistas of tall stacks coating the sky black.
No. They were not all of refineries. One wall had a montage. Hard to make out in peripheral vision but it seemed to be birds drowning in pools of oil, flowers wilting, trees dying.
Wait. That wasn’t all of them. As he turned his head I saw another mural. It seemed to be a planet festooned with hydrogen-bomb explosions.
He turned his head again. There was another one! It was a sort of fantasy drawing. Dimly seen spaceships were firing barrages at a planet that looked like Earth. Maybe the original of a magazine cover?
The people. There seemed to be quite a few people in that huge office. I still-framed the record strip so I could see how many and who. People can be dangerous.
Over at the bar, behind it, was a white-coated bartender. He was just sitting there, reading the Daily Racing Form.
There was a girl sitting on a stool at the office bar. She was dressed in a very skimpy-back gown of sequins. She had very dark, seductive eyes. She was toying with an ice cream soda. His secretary?
Three girls were standing to Heller’s right. Their skirts barely covered their hips. They had little pillbox caps at an angle on their heads. They had on short boots. Their clothing—what there was of it—was all in sparkling white, matching the shag rug. They seemed to be holding pens. His secretaries?
In my nervousness, I had had the sound off. I turned it up. In the background could be heard a very hot band playing atmosphere music. Lots of kettledrums and rolling snares, a strident trumpet rolling over the top of it.
I began to relax. My fears were not well founded. Nobody could work in that much commotion. Heller was just playing around as usual.
He seemed to be fiddling with two metal objects. He had a thick canvas spread out under them. He turned his head further. Izzy was sitting on his left.
Con man Izzy. He was in his Salvation Army suit and he had the battered briefcase on his knees. His horn-rimmed glasses flashed away on either side of his beaked nose.
“You have lost me, Mr. Jet,” Izzy was saying. “I just am not very bright about engineering. I know you explained it yesterday but with so many things worrying me, I couldn’t retain it. I had a headache all night. My health isn’t good, you know.”
Heller handed a screwdriver to one of the three girls. She spun it expertly in a baton twist and slipped it into a case.
Heller made some kind of a mysterious signal. I watched it closely. A code of some sort. The barman put down his Daily Racing Form, picked up a tall glass—crystal?—and expertly began to toss a fizzing stream into another matching glass, back and forth in an arc. He put it on a silv
er tray and brought it to Izzy. Did Heller have Izzy on drugs?
Izzy drank it, leaving a white fizz mustache on his upper lip. The bartender courteously took the crystal back. “Was the Bromo Seltzer to the right strength, sir?”
Izzy nodded and thanked him.
Meanwhile, the slinky girl at the bar had finished her soda and left. A girl wearing almost absolutely nothing in bright red came in. She sat down on a stool. The bartender on his return started to serve her some ice cream. Another secretary?
Oh, nobody could work in an area like this. No real danger. Engineering work is very painstaking and tense. An engineering lab is stark and steely. An engineer doesn’t work like this. I had been unduly alarmed.
“Your headache better?” said Heller to Izzy.
“I’m afraid it’s gone,” said Izzy.
“All right,” said Heller. “I will explain it again. It all boils down to whether or not a society can handle force. This one doesn’t seem to be able to.
“Now, pay attention. You must be able to convert matter to energy. Then you can use energy to move matter.
“Politically, financially and every other way, you have to know how to handle force. If you don’t, you can blow up the whole society.
“Now, for some screwball reason, this society considers life junior to force. This is a nutty philosophy called materialism or mechanism. It is false.
“Unless this society snaps out of it and gets rid of that philosophy, which is just primitive nonsense, this society will never be able to survive.
“The fact is, it is life that handles force! Only life gives things direction. Matter cannot control matter—it has no intentions. Life is NOT a product of matter. It is its boss!
“You want this society to get into space? Start considering that life can handle force. You want this culture to survive, realize it is life that handles force.
“Anybody telling you otherwise is not only trapping you on this planet, he is also trying to destroy it.”
“Oh, dear,” said Izzy. “Do you mean we’d better shoot all the psychologists and other materialists?”