“Okay,” Jason Taverner said. He left the office, closing the blue-and-white doors behind him.
Into his intercom Buckman said, “Herb, make sure they put both a microtrans and a heterostatic class eighty warhead on him. So we can follow him and if it’s necessary at any time we can destroy him.”
“You want a voice tap, too?” Herb said.
“Yes, if you can get it onto his throat without him noticing.
“I’ll have Peg do it,” Herb said, and signed off.
Could a Mutt and Jeff, say, between me and McNulty, have brought any more information out? he asked himself. No, he decided. Because the man himself simply doesn’t know. What we must do is wait for him to figure it out . . . and be there with him, either physically or electronically, when it happens. As in fact I pointed out to him.
But it still strikes me, he realized, that we very well may have blundered onto something the sixes are doing as a group–despite their usual mutual animosity.
Again pressing the button of his intercom he said, “Herb, have a twenty-four-hour surveillance put on that pop singer Heather Hart or whatever she calls herself. And get from Data Central the files of all what they call ‘sixes.’ You understand?”
“Are the cards punched for that?” Herb said.
“Probably not,” Buckman said drearily. “Probably nobody thought to do it ten years ago when Dill-Temko was alive, thinking up more and weirder life forms to shamble about.” Like us sevens, he thought wryly. “And they certainly wouldn’t think of it these days, now that the sixes have failed politically. Do you agree?”
“I agree,” Herb said, “but I’ll try for it anyhow.”
Buckman said, “If the cards are punched for that, I want a twenty-four-hour surveillance on all sixes. And even if we can’t roust them all out we can at least put tails on the ones we know.”
“Will do, Mr. Buckman.” Herb clicked off.
18
“Goodbye and good luck, Mr. Taverner,” the poi chick named Peg said to him at the wide entrance to the great gray academy building.
“Thanks,” Jason said. He inhaled a deep sum of morning air, smog-infested as it was. I got out, he said to himself. They could have hung a thousand busts on me but they didn’t.
A female voice, very throaty, said from close by, “How now, little man?”
Never in his life had he been called “little man”; he stood over six feet tall. Turning, he started to say something in answer, then made out the creature who had addressed him.
She too stood a full six feet in height; they matched in that department. But in contrast to him she wore tight black pants, a leather shirt, red, with tassle fringes, gold hooped earrings, and a belt made of chain. And spike heeled shoes. Jesus Christ, he thought, appalled. Where’s her whip?
“Were you talking to me?” he said.
“Yes.” She smiled, showing teeth ornamented with gold signs of the zodiac. “They put three items on you before you got out of there; I thought you ought to know.”
“I know,” Jason said, wondering who or what she was.
“One of them,” the girl said, “is a miniaturized H-bomb. It can be detonated by a radio signal emitted from this building. Did you know about that?”
Presently he said, “No. I didn’t.”
“It’s the way he works things,” the girl said. “My brother. . . he raps mellow and nice to you, civilizedly, and then he has one of his staff–he has a huge staff–plant that garbage on you before you can walk out the door of the building.”
“Your brother,” Jason said. “General Buckman.” He could see, now, the resemblance between them. The thin, elongated nose, the high cheekbones, the neck, like a Modigliani, tapered beautifully. Very patrician, he thought. They, both of them, impressed him.
So she must be a seven, too, he said to himself. He felt himself become wary, again; the hackles on his neck burned as he confronted her.
“I’ll get them off you,” she said, still smiling, like General Buckman, a gold-toothed smile.
“Good enough,” Jason said.
“Come over to my quibble.” She started off lithely; he loped clumsily after her.
A moment later they sat together in the front bucket seats of her quibble.
“Alys is my name,” she said.
He said, “I’m Jason Taverner, the singer and TV personality.”
“Oh, really? I haven’t watched a TV program since I was nine.”
“You haven’t missed much,” he said. He did not know if he meant it ironically; frankly, he thought, I’m too tired to care.
“This little bomb is the size of a seed,” Alys said. “And it’s embedded, like a tick, in your skin. Normally, even if you knew it was there someplace on you, you still could never find it. But I borrowed this from the academy.” She held up a tubelike light. “This glows when you get it near a seed bomb.” She began at once, efficiently and nearly professionally, to move the light across his body.
At his left wrist the light glowed.
“I also have the kit they use to remove a seed bomb,” Alys said. From her mailpouch purse she brought a shallow tin, which she at once opened. “The sooner it’s cut out of you the better,” she said, as she lifted a cutting tool from the kit.
For two minutes she cut expertly, meanwhile spraying an analgesic compound on the wound. And then–it lay in her hand. As she had said, the size of a seed.
“Thanks,” he said. “For removing the thorn from my paw.” Alys laughed gaily; she replaced the cutting tool in the kit, shut the lid, returned it to her huge purse. “You see,” she said, “he never does it himself; it’s always one of his staff. So he can remain ethical and aloof, as if it has nothing to do with him. I think I hate that the most about him.” She pondered. “I really hate him.”
“Is there anything else you can cut or tear off me?” Jason inquired.
“They tried–Peg, who is a police technician expert at it, tried–to stick a voice tap on your gullet. But I don’t think she got it to stick.” Cautiously, she explored his neck. “No, it didn’t catch; it fell off. Fine. That takes care of that. You do have a microtrans on you somewhere; we’ll need a strobe light to pick up its flux.” She fished in the glove compartment of the quibble and came up with a battery-operated strobe disc. “I think I can find it,” she said, setting the strobe light into activity.
The microtrans turned out to be in residence in the cuff of his left sleeve. Alys pushed a pin through it, and that was that.
“Is there anything else?” Jason asked her.
“Possibly a minicam. A very small camera transmitting a TV image back to academy monitors. But I didn’t see them wind one into you; I think we can take a chance and forget that.” She turned, then, to scrutinize him. “Who are you?” she asked. “By the way.”
Jason said, “An unperson.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning that I don’t exist.”
“Physically?”
“I don’t know,” –he said, truthfully. Maybe, he thought, if I had been more open with her brother the police general . . . maybe he could have worked it out. After all, Felix Buckman was a seven. Whatever that meant.
But still–Buckman had probed in the right direction; he had brought out a good deal. And in a very short time–a period punctuated by a late-night breakfast and a cigar.
The girl said, “So you’re Jason Taverner. The man McNulty was trying to pin down and couldn’t. The man with no data on him anywhere in the world. No birth certificate; no school records; no–”
“How is it you know all this?” Jason said.
“I looked over McNulty’s report.” Her tone was blithe. “In Felix’s office. It interested me.”
“Then why did you ask me who I am?”
Alys said, “I wondered if you knew. I had heard from McNulty; this time I wanted your side of it. The antipol side, as they call it.”
“I can’t add anything to what McNulty knows,” Jason said. “That’s not true.” She had begun to interrogate him now, precisely in the manner her brother had a short time ago. A low, informal tone of voice, as if something merely casual were being discussed, then the intense focus on his face, the graceful motions of her arms and hands, as if, while talking to him, she danced a little. With herself. Beauty dancing on beauty, he thought; he found her physically, sexually exciting. And he had had enough of sex, God knew, for the next several days.
“Okay,” he conceded. “I know more.”
“More than you told Felix?”
He hesitated. And, in doing so, answered.
“Yes,” Alys said.
He shrugged. It had become obvious.
“Tell you what,” Alys said briskly. “Would you like to see how a police general lives? His home? His billion-dollar castle?”