“Instead of—”
“Instead of poisoning yourself,” Ol’ Orville said. “And also instead of wasting forty years waiting on something which you had already decided to abandon—and you have ignored this, Mr. Lars—when you went to Fairfax to see Miss Topchev the first time. You had already stopped loving Maren Faine.”
There was silence.
“Is that true, Lars?” Lilo asked.
He nodded.
Lilo said. “Ol’ Orville is smart.”
“Yes,” he agreed. He rose to his feet, pushed his chair back, walked toward her.
“You’re going to follow its advice?” Lilo said. “But I’m already half-dressed: we have to be at work in forty-five minutes. Both of us. There isn’t time.”
She laughed happily, however, with immense relief.
“Oh yes,” Lars said. And picked her up in his arms, lugged her toward the bedroom. “There’s just barely enough time.” As he kicked the bedroom door shut after them he said, “And just barely enough is enough.”
THIRTY - TWO
Far below Earth’s surface in drab, low-rent conapt 2A in the least-desirable building of the wide ring of substandard housing surrounding Festung Washington, D.C., Surley G. Febbs stood at one end of a rickety table at which sat five didascalic individuals.
Five motley, assorted persons, plus himself. But they had, however, been certified by Univox-50R, the official government computer, as able to represent the authentic, total trend of Wes-bloc buying-habits.
This secret meeting of these six new concomodies was so illegal as to beggar description.
Rapping on the table, Febbs said shrilly, “The meeting will now come to order.”
He glanced up and down in a severe fashion, showing them who was in charge. It was he, after all, who had brought them, in the most circumspect manner possible, with every security precaution that a genuine uniquely clever human mind (his) could devise, together in this one dingy room.
Everyone was attentive—but nervous, because God knew the FBI or the CIA or KACH might burst in the door any moment despite the inspired security precautions of their leader, Surley G. Febbs.
“As you know,” Febbs said, his arm folded, feet planted wide apart so as to convincingly demonstrate that he was solidly planted here, was not about to be swept away by the hired creeps of any institutional police force, “it is illegal for us six concomodies even to know one another’s names. Hence, we shall begin this confabulation by reciting our names.” He pointed to the woman seated closest to him.
Squeakily, she said, “Martha Raines.”
Febbs pointed to the next person in turn.
“Jason Gill.”
“Harry Markison.”
“Doreen Stapleton.”
“Ed L. Jones.” The last man, at the far end, spoke firmly. And that was that. In defiance of the law of Wes-bloc and its police agencies they knew one another by name.
Ironically, since the Emergency had passed, the UN-W Natsec Board now “allowed” them to enter the kremlin and officially participate in its meetings. And that’s because individually, Febbs realized as he looked around the rickety table, each of us possesses nothing. Is nothing. And the Board knows it. But all six of us together—
Aloud he said commandingly, “Okay; let’s begin. Every one of you when you walked through this door brought your component of that new weapon, that item 401 they call the Molecular Restriction-Beam Phase-Inverter. Right? I saw a paper bag or neutral, ordinary-looking plastic carton under everyone’s arm. Correct?”
Each of the five concomodies facing him mumbled a yes, Mr. Febbs or nodded or both. In fact each had placed his package on the table, in plain sight, as a show of courage.
Febbs instructed in a sharp, emotion-laden voice, “Open them up. Let’s see the contents!”
With shaking fingers and great trepidation, the paper bags and cartons were opened.
On the table rested the six components. When assembled (assuming that someone in this room could accomplish this) they formed the dread new Molecular Restriction-Beam Phase-Inverter.
Tapes of the tearwep in action at Lanferman Associates’ huge subsurface proving-levels indicated that no defense against it existed. And the entire UN-W Natsec Board, including the six at-last-allowed-in concomodies, had solemnly viewed those tapes.
“Our task,” Febbs declared, “of rebuilding these components back to form the original tearwep falls naturally onto myself. I personally shall take full responsibility. As you all know, the next formal meeting of the Board is one week from today. So we have less than seven days in which to reassemble the Molecular Restriction-Beam Phase-Inverter, item 401.”
Jason Gill piped, “You want us to stick around while you put it back together, Mr. Febbs?”
“You may if you so desire,” Febbs said.
Ed Jones said, “Can we offer suggestions? The reason I ask that is, see, my job in real life—I mean before I was a concomody—was standby electrician at G.E. in Detroit. So I know a little about electronics.”
“You may offer suggestions,” Febbs decided, after some thought. “I will permit it. But you understand our sacred pact. As a political organization we are to allow policy to be decided by our elected leader without bureaucratic, hampering-type restrictions. Correct?”
Everyone mumbled correct.
Febbs was that unhampered, unbureaucratically restricted, elected leader. Of their clandestine political revolutionary-type organization which (after long debate) had titled itself, menacingly, the BOCFDUTCRBASEBFIN, The Benefactors of Constitutional Freedoms Denied Under the Contemporary Rule By a Small Elite By Force If Necessary. Cell One.
Picking up his component and Ed Jones’, Febbs seated himself and reached into the bin of brand-new tools with which at great cost the organization had provided itself. He brought out a long, slender, tapered, German-made screwdriver with autonomic clockwise or anti-clockwise rotation action (depending on which way you pressed the plastic handle) and began his work.
Reverently, the other five members of the organization watched.
An hour later Surley G. Febbs grunted sweatily, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief as he halted to take a breather, said, “This will take time. It isn’t easy. But we’re getting there.”
Martha Raines said nervously, “I hope a roving, random police monitor doesn’t happen to cruise by above-surface and pick up our thoughts.”
Politely, Jones pointed and said, “Um, I believe that doodad there fits up against that template. See where those screw-holes are?”
“Conceivably so,” Febbs said. “This brings me to something I intended to take up later. But since I’m pausing for a while I might as well say it to you all now.” He glanced around at them to be sure he had their individual, undivided attention, and then spoke as authoritatively as possible. Given a man of his ability and knowledge this was very authoritative. “I want all of you comprising Cell One clear in your minds as to the exact type of socio-economic, pol-struc of society we shall install in place of the undemo-tyr by the privileged cog elite which now holds power.”
“You tell ‘em Febbs,” Jones said encouragingly.
“Yeah,” Jason Gill agreed. “Let’s hear once again! I like this part, what happens after we run ‘em out of office with this item 401.”
With superlative calm, Febbs continued, “Everyone on the UN-W Natsec Board will of course be tried as war criminals. We’ve agreed on that.”
“Yeah!”
“It is Article A in our Constitution. But as to the rest of the cogs, especially those Commie bastards in Peep-East that traitor General Nitz is so pally with. Like that Marshal Paponovich or whatever his name is. Well, like I’ve explained to you in our past secret meetings down here—”
“Right, Febbs!”
“—they’re really going to get it. They’re the worst. But mainly we have to seize—and I demand absolute obedience on this, because this is tactically crucial—we initially must gain contro
l of the ENTIRE SUBSURFACE INSTALLATIONS OF LANFERMAN ASSOCIATES IN CALIFORNIA, because as we all know, it’s from there the new weapons come. Like this 401 they stupidly turned over to us for—ha-ha—‘plow-sharing.’ I mean, we don’t want them to build any more of these.”
Martha Raines asked timidly, “And what do we do after we, ah, seize Lanferman Associates?”
Febbs said, “Thereupon we then arrest their hired stooge, that Lars Powderdry. And then we compel him to start designing weapons for us.”
Harry Markison, a middle-aged businessman with a certain amount of common sense, spoke up. “But the weapon by which we won what they are now calling ‘The Big War’ with—”
“Get to it, Markison.”
“It, uh, wasn’t designed by Mr. Lars, Incorporated. Originally it was some sort of maze invented by some non-cog toy-manufacturing outfit, Klug Enterprises. So—don’t we have to beware that this Klug fella—”
“Listen,” Febbs said quietly. “I’ll tell you the real scoop on that. But now I’m busy.”
He then picked up a small Swedish watchmaker’s screwdriver and resumed the task of reassembling weapon 401. He ignored the other five concomodies. There was no more time for blabbing; work had to be done, if their blitz-swift coup against the cog elite was to be successful. And it would be.
Three hours later, with most of the components (in fact all except one fast, outlandish, goose-neck-squash-like geegaw) assembled ready for all systems go, with Febbs wet with perspiration and the other five concomodies out of their minds or bored or restless, depending on their natures, there sounded—shockingly, making the room suddenly deathly still—a knock at the door.
Laconically, Febbs grunted, “I’ll handle this.” From the tool bin he lifted a beautifully balanced Swiss chrome-steel hammer and walked slowly across the room, past the rigid, pale other five concomodies. He unbolted, unfastened, untied the triple-locked door, opened it a crack, peered out into the gloomy hall.
A spic-and-span-new shiny autonomic ’stant mail delivery robot stood there, waiting.
“Yes?” Febbs inquired.
The ’stant mail robot whirred, “Parcel for Mr. Surley Grant Febbs. Registered. Sign here if you are Mr. Febbs or if not Mr. Febbs then on line two instead.” It presented a form, pen and flat surface of itself on which to scribble.
Laying down the hammer Febbs said, turning briefly to the other five concomodies, “It’s okay. More tools we ordered, probably.” He signed the form, and the autonomic ’stant mail delivery robot handed him a brown-paper-wrapped package.
Febbs shut the door, stood shakily holding the package, then shrugged in courageous defiance. He walked unconcernedly back to where he had been sitting.
“You’ve got guts, Febbs,” Ed Jones declared, expressing the sentiments of the group. “I was sure it was an Einsatzgruppe from KACH.”
“In my opinion,” Harry Markison said, with overwhelming relief, “it looked to be the goddam Soviet secret police, the KVB. I’ve got a brother-in-law in Estonia—”
Febbs said, “They’re just not smart enough to pinpoint our meetings. History will deal them out, evolution-wise to make way for superior forms.”
“Yeah,” Jones agreed. “Like look how long it took them to come up with a weapon to defeat the alien slavers from Sirius with.”
“Open the package,” Markison said.
“In time,” Febbs said. He fitted the squash-like geegaw in place and mopped his drenched, steaming forehead.
“When do we act, Febbs?” Gill asked. They all sat, eyes fixed on Febbs, waiting for his decision. Aware of this, he felt relaxed. The pressure was off.
“I’ve been thinking,” Febbs said, in his most Febbsish manner. It had been deep thinking, indeed. Reaching out, he picked up the weapon, tearwep item 401, held it cradled, his hand on the trigger.
“I required the five of you,” he said, “because I had to obtain all six components that constitute this weapon. However—”
Pressing the trigger he demolecularized, by means of the wide-angle setting of the phase-inversion beam emanating from the muzzle of the weapon, his fellow five concomodies at their seats here and there around the rickety table.
It happened soundlessly. Instantly. As he had anticipated. The vid and aud tapes from Lanferman Associates, shown to the Board, had indicated these useful aspects of item 401’s action.
There was now left only Surley G. Febbs. And armed with Earth’s most modern, fashionable, advanced, soundless, instant weapon. Against which no defense was yet known … even to Lars Powderdry, whose business it was to conjure up such things.
And you, Mr. Lars, Febbs said to himself, are next.
He laid the weapon down carefully and, with calm hands, lit another cigarette. He regretted that there was no longer anyone in the room to witness his rational, precise movements—anyone but himself, anyhow.
And then, because obviously now he had time to spare, Febbs reached out, picked up the brown-paper-wrapped package which the autonomic ’stant mail delivery robot had brought and set it directly before him. He unwrapped it, slowly, leisurely, meditating in his infinitely subtle mind on the future which lay so close ahead.
He was frankly puzzled by what he found within the wrappings. It was not additional tools. It was nothing he, or the now-nonexistent organization BOCFDUTCRBASEBFIN, Cell One, had ordered.
It was in fact a toy.
Specifically, he discovered as he lifted the lid of the brightly colored, amusing box, it was a product of the marginal toy-maker, Klug Enterprises. A game of some kind.
A child’s maze.
He felt, immediately, on an instinctive level—because after all he was no ordinary man—acute, accurate, intuitive dismay. But not sufficiently acute, accurate or intuitive enough to cause him to hurl the box aside. The impulse was there. But he did not act on it—because he was curious.
Already he had seen that this was no common maze. It intrigued his uniquely subtle, agile mind. It held him gripped so that he continued to peer at the maze, then at the instructions on the inside lid of the box.
“You are the world’s foremost concomody,” a telepathic voice sounded in his mind, emanating from the maze itself. “You are Surley Grant Febbs. Right?”
“Right,” said Febbs.
“It is you,” the telepathic voice continued, “who make the primary decision as to the worthwhileness of each consumer commodity newly introduced on the market. Right?”
Febbs, feeling a cold bite of caution over his heart, nevertheless nodded. “Yes, that’s so. They have to come to me first. That’s my job on the Board—I’m the current concomody A. So they give me the important components.”
The telepathic voice said, “Vincent Klug of Klug Enterprises, a small firm, would therefore, Mr. Febbs, like you to examine this new game, The Man In The Maze. Please determine whether in your expert opinion it is ready for marketing. A form is provided on which you may transcribe your reactions.”
Febbs said haltingly, “You mean you want me to play with this?”
“That is exactly what we want. Please press the red button on the right side of the maze.”
Febbs pressed the red button.
In the maze a tiny creature gave a yelp of horror.
Febbs jumped, startled. The tiny creature was roly-poly and adorable-looking. Somehow it was appealing even to him—and he normally detested animals, not to mention people. It began to hurry frantically through the maze, seeking the way out.
The placid telepathic voice continued. “You will notice that this product, made for the domestic market and soon to be run off in quantity if it successfully passes such initial tests as you are providing it, bears a striking resemblance to the famous Empathic-Tele-path Pseudononhomo Ludens Maze developed by Klug Enterprises and utilized recently as a weapon of war. Right?”
“Y-yes.” But his attention was still fixed on the travails of the tiny roly-poly creature. It was having a terrible time, becoming more confounded and mo
re embroiled in the tortured ways and byways of the maze each second.
The harder it tried the deeper it became enmeshed. And that’s not right, Febbs thought or rather felt. He experienced its torment, and that torment was appalling. Something had to be done about it, and now.
“Hey,” he said feebly. “How do I get this animal, whatever it is, out?”
The telepathic voice informed him, “On the left-hand side of the maze you will find a gaily-colored blue stud. Depress that stud, Mr. Febbs.”
Eagerly he pressed it.
He felt at once, or imagined he felt (which was it? The distinction seemed to have evaporated) a diminution of the terror surging within the trapped animal.
But almost at once that terror returned—and this time with renewed, even increased, severity.
“You would like,” the telepathic voice said, “to get the man in the maze out. Would you not, Mr. Febbs? Be honest. Let’s not kid ourselves. Is this not right?”
“Right,” Febbs whispered, nodding. “But it’s not a man, is it? I mean, it’s just a bug or an animal or something. What is it?”
He needed to know. The answer was urgent to him. Maybe I can lift it out, he thought. Or yell to it. Somehow communicate with it so it sees how to get away and that I’m up here, trying for its sake.
“Hey!” he said to the scampering creature as it rebounded from one barrier to the next as the structure, the pattern, of the maze altered and realtered, always outwitting it. “Who are you? What are you? Do you have a name?”
“I have a name,” the trapped creature thought back frantically to him, linking itself, its travails, with him. Sharing its plight with Surley G. Febbs desperately and gladly.
He felt himself enmeshed now, not looking down at the maze from above but—seeing the barriers ahead of him, looming. He was—
He was the creature in the maze.
“My name,” he squealed, appealing to the enormous, not fully-understood entity above him whose countenance, whose presence, he had sensed for a moment … but now who seemed to be gone. He could no longer locate it. He was alone again as he faced the shifting walls on every side.