“I wanted to get a good pic, three-D and in color, possibly even animated, if you have it, of Miss Topchev.”
“Of course. But you can’t wait a day?”
“I want to be prepared in advance.”
“Why?” Kaminsky’s eyes were sharp with old acuity.
Lars said, “You never heard of bridal portraits.”
“Ah. Plot of many plays, operas, heroic legend; done to death, ought to be buried forever. You’re serious, Mr. Lars? Then you’ve got troubles. What is called here in your Wes-bloc problems.”
“I know.”
“Miss Topchev is wrinkled, dried-out, leather-like handbag. Should be in old folks’ home, except for the medium talent.”
The blow almost unhinged him; he felt himself calcify.
“You croaked just now,” Kaminsky said. “Sorry, Mr. Lars. Psychological experiment Pavlov style. I regret it and apologize. Consider. You are going to Fairfax to save four billion. Not to find mistress to replace Maren Faine, your Liebesnacht compatriot of the moment. As you found her to replace—what was her name? Betty? The one before, the one KACH says had lovely legs.”
“Christ,” Lars said. “Always that KACH. Living things turned into data sold by the inch.”
“To any buyer, too,” Kaminsky reminded him. “To your enemy, your friend, wife, employer, or worse: employees. The agency on which blackmail grows like mold. But as you discovered in that blurred pic of Miss Topchev, something always is held back. To keep you dangling. To make sure you still need more, yet. Look, Mr. Lars; I have a family, wife and three children in Soviet Union. Two They-satellites in our sky, they can kill so as to get at me. They can get at you, maybe if your mistress in Paris died in some awful way, contaminated or infused or—”
“Okay.”
“I just want to petition you; that’s all. You will be in Fairfax to see that nothing happens like that to us. I pray to God you and Lilo Topchev imagine up some masterpiece that will be a shield: we are children, playing under the protection of a father’s armor. See? If you forget that—”
Kaminsky produced a key, unlocked an old-fashioned drawer of his desk. “I own this. Dated.” It was an explosion-pellet automatic that he held up, its muzzle pointed carefully away from Lars. “As an official in an organization that can never back down but would have to be burned out, destroyed, for it to cease, I can offer you an advanced piece of news. Before you leave for Fairfax you will be told there is no returning. Somewhere we make a mistake. A picket ship or immense-radius-orbit monitoring satellite, a solar-sat, failed. And because of it maybe a relay system or a percept-extensor did nothing.” He shrugged, put the automatic hand-weapon away in the desk drawer, scrupulously relocking it with his key. “I am ranting.”
Lars said, “You should see a psychiatrist while you’re still stationed in Wes-bloc.” Turning, he left Kaminsky’s office. He pushed the door open and emerged in the buzzing, activity-drenched main chambers.
Following after him, Kaminsky halted at the office door and said, “I would do it myself.”
“Do what?” He turned, briefly.
“With what I showed you, locked in the desk.”
“Oh.” Lars nodded. “Okay. I’ve got that noted.”
Thereupon he numbly made his way among the scurrying minor bureaucrats of the embassy, through the front door, and out onto the sidewalk.
They’re out of their minds, he said to himself. They still believe that in a really tight situation, when it really matters, things can be solved that way. Their evolution of the last fifty years has been all on the surface. Underneath they remain the same.
So not only do we face the presence of two alien satellites orbiting our world, Lars realized, but we have to endure, under this not-prepared-for stress, a return to the unsheathed sword of the past. So all the covenants and pacts and treaties, the locker at the Greyhound bus station at Topeka, Kansas, Geldthaler Gemeinschaft in Berlin, Fairfax itself—it’s a delusion. And we both, East and West, shared it together. It’s as much our fault as theirs, the willingness to believe and take the soft road out. Look at me now, he thought. In this crisis I’ve headed straight for the Soviet Embassy.
And look what it got me. An automatic old-time hand-weapon pointed, in the service of the technical aspects of bodily safety, at the roof instead of my abdominal cavity.
But that man was right. Kaminsky was telling me the truth, not blustering or engaging in hysteria. If Lilo and I fail, we will be destroyed. The blocs will then turn elsewhere for assistance. The heavy burden will fall on Jack Lanferman and his engineers, most especially Pete Freid—and God help them if they can’t do it either, because if so then they will follow Lilo and me into the grave.
Grave, he thought, you were once asked where your victory is. I can point it out for you. It is here. Me.
As he hailed a passing hopper car he realized suddenly. And I didn’t even get what I went into that building for; I couldn’t wangle a clear pic of Lilo.
In that, too, Kaminsky had been correct. Lars Powderdry would have to wait until the meeting at Fairfax. He would not go in prepared.
14
Late that night, as he lay sleeping in his New York conapt, they came.
“She’s all right now, Mr. Lars. So do you want to throw your clothes on? We’ll pack the rest for you and send it later. We’ll go directly up to the roof. Our ship is there.” The leader of the FBI men or CIA men or God knew what kind of men, anyhow professionals and accustomed to being awake and at their duties at this time of night, began, to Lars’ incredulity, to rummage in his dresser drawers and closets, gathering his clothes in an efficient, silent, machine-at-work encirclement, they were all around him, doing what they had been sent for. He stood in sleepy, animal-irritable, benumbed bewilderment.
But out of this, full wakefulness at last came, and he padded to the bathroom.
As he washed his face, one of the police in the other room said to him casually, “They’ve got three up, now.”
“Three,” he said, moronically, confronting his sleep-squeezed, wrinkled face in the mirror. His hair hung like dry seaweed over his forehead and he automatically reached for a comb.
“Three satellites. And this third one is different, or so the tracking-stations say.”
Lars said, “Hedgehog?”
“No, just different. It’s not a monitoring rig. It’s not gathering info. The first two were; now maybe they’ve done their job.”
“They’ve proved,” Lars said, “by being able to remain up there, that we can’t bring them down.” No mass of sophisticated equipment jammed into the two sats was necessary to establish that; they might as well be hollow.
The police wore commonplace gray-eminence style cloaks and looked, with their close-shaven heads, like excessively ascetic monks. They ascended to the roof of the conapt building. The man on Lars’ right, rather ruddy of complexion, said, “We understand you visited the Soviet Embassy this afternoon.”
“That’s right,” Lars said.
“That writ you have—”
“It just forbids them to accost me,” he said. “I can accost them. They don’t have a writ.”
The policeman said, “Any luck?”
That did stump him. He pondered in silence, unable to answer. Did the query mean that these FBI or CIA people knew why he had gone to Kaminsky? At last, as they crossed the roof-field to the parked government ship, of a familiar, pursuit-class, great-cruising-range style, Lars said, “Well, he made his point. If you call that ‘luck.’ ”
The ship rose. New York rapidly fell behind; they were out over the Atlantic. Lights, the habitations of man far below, dwindled and were lost to sight. Lars, peering back, felt an anxious, perhaps even neurotic regret; he experienced a sense of acute, pervasive loss. A loss which could never be compensated for, throughout all eternity.
“How are you going to act?” asked the policeman at the controls.
“I will give the absolute, total, entire, exhaustive, holistic, unconditional impression,” Lars said, “that I am being candid, naïve, open, honest, truthful, prolix, verbose—”
Sharply the policeman said, “You stupid bastard—our lives are at stake!”
Lars said somberly, “You’re a cog.”
The policeman—both policemen, in fact—nodded.
“Then you know,” Lars said, “that I can provide you with a gadget, a plowshare component of a sixty-stage guidance-system, which will light your cigars and make up new Mozart string quartets as background while another gadget, a plowshared component from some other multiplex item, serves you your food, even chews it for you and if necessary spits any and all seeds out, into a gadget—”
“I can see,” one of the two police said to his companions, “why they hate these weapons fashion designers so goddam much. They’re fairies.”
“No,” Lars said. “You’re wrong; that’s not what ails me. You want to know what ails me? How long before we reach Fairfax?”