Kathy said, ‘You’re lying.’
‘When? In what way?’ He continued stroking her hair but it had become a mechanical action, without volition or desire.
‘You would have made love to me just now, if that was why you were leaving.’ She rebuttoned her dress. ‘You don’t care about me.’ Her voice held certitude; he recognized the drab, thin tone. Always this barrier, this impossibility of getting through. This time he did not waste his time trying; he simply went on stroking her, thinking, It’ll be on my conscience, whatever happens to her. And she knows it, too. So she’s absolved of the burden of responsibility, and that, for her, is the worst thing possible.
Too bad, he thought, I wasn’t able to make love to her.
‘My dinner’s ready,’ he said, rising.
She sat up. ‘Eric, I’m going to pay you back for leaving me.’ She smoothed her dress. ‘You understand?’
‘Yes,’ he said, and walked into the kitchen.
‘I’ll devote my life to it,’ Kathy said, from the bedroom. ‘Now I have a reason for living. It’s wonderful to have a purpose at last; it’s thrilling. After all these pointless ugly years with you. God, it’s like being born all over again.’
‘Lots of luck,’ he said.
‘Luck? I don’t need luck; I need skill, and I think I have skill. I learned a lot during that episode under the effects of that drug. I wish I could tell you what it is; it’s an incredible drug, Eric – it changes your entire perception of the universe and especially of other people. You don’t ever view them the same again. You ought to try it. It would help you.’
‘Nothing,’ he said, ‘would help me.’
His words, in his ears, sounded like an epitaph.
——————————————————————————–
He had almost finished packing – and had long since eaten – when the doorbell of the conapt rang. It was Otto Dorf, already here with the military ‘copter, and Eric soberly went to open the door for him.
Glancing about the conapt, Dorf said, ‘Did you have an opportunity to say good-by to your wife, doctor?’
‘Yes.’ He added, ‘She’s gone now; I’m alone.’ He closed his suitcase and carried it and its companion to the door. ‘I’m ready.’ Dorf picked up one suitcase and together they walked to the elevator. ‘She did not take it very well,’ he remarked to Dorf as they presently descended.
‘I’m unmarried, doctor,’ Dorf said. ‘I wouldn’t know.’ His manner was correct and formal.
In the parked ‘copter another man waited. He held out his hand as Eric ascended the rungs. ‘Doctor; it’s good to meet you.’ The man, hidden in the shadows, explained, ‘I’m Harry Teagarden, chief of the Secretary’s medical staff. I’m glad you’re joining us; the Secretary hadn’t informed me in advance but that’s no matter – he invariably acts on impulse.’
Eric shook hands with him, his mind still on Kathy. ‘Sweet-scent.’
‘How did Molinari’s condition strike you when you met him?’
‘He seemed tired.’
Teagarden said, ‘He’s dying.’
Glancing at him swiftly, Eric said, ‘From what? In this day and age, with artiforgs available—’
I am familiar with current surgical techniques; believe me.’ Teagarden’s tone was dry. ‘You saw how fatalistic he is. He wants to be punished, obviously, for leading us into this war.’ Teagarden was silent as the ‘copter ascended into the night sky and then he continued, ‘Did it ever occur to you that Molinari engineered the losing of this war? That he wants to fail? I don’t think even his most rabid political enemies have tried that idea out. The reason I’m saying this to you is that we don’t have bales of time. Right at this moment Molinari is in Cheyenne suffering from a massive attack of acute gastritis – or whatever you care to call it. From your holiday at Wash-35. He’s flat on his back.’
‘Any internal bleeding?’
‘Not yet. Or perhaps there has been and Molinari hasn’t told us. With him it’s possible; he’s naturally secretive. Essentially he trusts nobody.’
‘And you’re positive there’s no malignancy?’
‘We can’t find any. But Molinari doesn’t allow us to conduct as many tests as we would like; he bolts. Too busy. Papers to sign, speeches to write, bills to present to the General Assembly. He tries to run everything singlehandedly. He can’t seem to delegate authority and then when he does he sets up overlapping organizations that immediately compete – it’s his way of protecting himself.’ Teagarden glanced curiously at Eric. ‘What did he say to you at Wash-35?’
‘Not much.’ He did not intend to disclose the contents of their discussion. Molinari had beyond doubt meant it for his ears exclusively. In fact, Eric realized, that was the cardinal reason for being brought to Cheyenne. He had something to offer Molinari that the other medics did not, a strange contribution for a doctor to be making… he wondered how Teagarden would react if he were to tell him. Probably – and for good reason – Teagarden would have him put under arrest. And shot.
‘I know why you’re going to be with us,’ Teagarden said.
Eric grunted. ‘You do?’ He doubted it.
‘Molinari is simply following his instinctive bias, having us double-checked by infusing new blood into our staff. But no one objects; in fact we’re grateful – we’re all overworked. You know, of course, that the Secretary has a huge family, even larger than that of Virgil Ackerman, your paterfamilias-style former employer.’
‘I believe I’ve read it’s three uncles, six cousins, an aunt, a sister, an elderly brother who—’
‘And they’re all in residence at Cheyenne,’ Teagarden said. ‘Constantly so. Hanging around him, trying to wangle little favors, better meals, quarters, servants – you get the pic. And—’ He paused. ‘I should add there’s a mistress.’
That Eric did not know. It had never been mentioned, even in the press hostile to the Secretary.
‘Her name is Mary Reineke. He met her before his wife’s death. On paper Mary’s listed as a personal secretary. I like her. She’s done a lot for him, both before and after his wife’s death. Without her he probably wouldn’t have survived. The ‘Starmen loathe her … I don’t quite know why. Perhaps I’ve missed out on some fact.’
‘How old is she?’ The Secretary, Eric guessed, was in his late forties or early fifties
‘As young as it’s humanly possible to be. Prepare yourself, doctor.’ Teagarden chuckled. ‘When he met her she was in high school. Working in the late afternoons as a typist. Perhaps she handed him a document… nobody knows for sure, but they did meet over some routine business matter.’
‘Can his illness be discussed with her?’
‘Absolutely. She’s the one – the only one – who’s been able to get him to take phenobarbital and, when we tried it, pathabamate. Phenobarb made him sleepy, he said, and path made his mouth dry. So of course he dropped them down a waste chute; he quit. Mary made him go back on. She’s Italian. As he is. She can bawl him out in a way he remembers from his childhood, from his mama, perhaps… or his sister or aunt; they all bawl him out and he tolerates it, but he doesn’t listen, except to Mary. She lives in a concealed apt in Cheyenne guarded by lines of Secret Service men – because of the ‘Star people. Molinari dreads the day they’ll—’ Teagarden broke off.
‘They’ll what?’
‘Kill her or maim her. Or weed out half her mental processes, turn her into a debrained vegetable; they’ve got a spectrum of techniques they can make use of. You didn’t know our dealings with the ally were so rough at the top, did you?’ Teagarden smiled. ‘It’s a rough war. That’s how Lilistar acts toward us, our superior ally beside which we’re a flea. So imagine how the enemy, the reegs, would treat us if our defense line cracked and they managed to pour in.’
For a time they rode in silence; no one cared to speak.
‘What do you think would happen,’ Eric said finally, ‘if Molinari passed out of the pic?’
‘Well, it would go one of two ways. Either we’d get someone more pro-Lilistar or we wouldn’t. What other choices are there, and why do you ask? Do you believe we’re going to lose our patient? If we do, doctor, we also lose our jobs and possibly our lives. Your one justification for existence – and mine – is the continual viable presence of one overweight, middle-aged Italian who lives in Cheyenne, Wyoming, with his enormous family and his eighteen-year-old mistress, who has stomach pains and enjoys eating a late-evening snack of batter-fried giant prawns with mustard and horse-radish. I don’t care what they told you or what you signed; you’re not going to be inserting any more artiforgs into Virgil Ackerman for a long time; there won’t be the opportunity because keeping Gino Molinari alive is a full-time task.’ Teagarden seemed irritable and upset now; his voice, in the darkness of the ‘copter cab, was jerky. ‘It’s too much for me, Sweetscent. You won’t have any other life but Molinari; he’ll talk your ear off, deliver practice speeches to you on every topic on Earth – ask your opinion about everything from contraception to mushrooms – how to cook them – to God to what would you do if, and so forth. For a dictator – and you realize that’s what he is, only we don’t like to use the name – he’s an anomaly. First of all he’s probably the greatest political strategist alive; how else do you suppose he rose to be UN Secretary General? It took him twenty years, and fighting all the way; he dislodged every political opponent he met, from every country on Terra. Then he got mixed up with Lilistar. That’s called foreign policy. On foreign policy the master strategist failed, because at that point a strange occlusion entered his mind. You know what it’s called? Ignorance. Molinari spent all his time learning how to knee people in the groin, and with Freneksy that isn’t called for. He would no more deal with Freneksy than you or I could – possibly worse.’