As the five of them walked on, one of the KVB men asked him, “You normally read such fare, Mr. Lars?” His tone was polite.
Lars said, “I have a complete file back to volume one, number one.”
There was no response; just a formal smile.
“It has declined, though,” Lars added. “During the last year.” He rolled the comic book up, thrust it into his pocket.
Later, as they buzzed above the rooftops of Fairfax in a USSR government military hopper, he unrolled the comic book and pondered it by the dim dome light above his head.
He had of course never examined such garbage before. It was interesting. The Blue Cephalopod Man, in a long and much honored tradition, burst buildings, knocked out crooks, disguised himself at both ends of each episode as Jason St. James, a colorless computer-operator. That, too, was standard, for reasons lost in the obscurity of the history of comic book art, but having somehow to do with Jason St. James’ girl friend, Nina Whitecotton, who wrote a gourmet column for the Monrovia Chronicle-Times, a mythical homeopape cranked forth for sale throughout West Africa.
Miss Whitecotton, interestingly, was a Negro. And so were all the other humans in the comic strip, including the Blue Cephaloped Man himself when he put on mortality as Jason St. James. And the locale was, throughout each episode, “a large metropolitan area somewhere in Ghana.”
The comic book was aimed at an Afro-Asia audience. By some fluke of the world-wide autonomic distributing mechanism, it had shown up here in Iceland.
In the second episode the Blue Cephalopod Man temporarily was drained of his abnormal powers by the presence of a meteor of zularium, a rare metal “from the Betelgeuse system.” And the electronic device by which the Blue Cephalopod Man’s sidekick, Harry North, a physics professor at Leopoldville, restored those lost powers, just in time to nab the monsters from “Proxima’s fourth planet, Agakana,” was a construct astonishingly like his own weapons design item 204.
Strange! Lars continued reading.
In Episode three, the terminal section of the comic book, another machine peculiarly familiar to him—he could not precisely place it, however—was brought into play by the cunning assistance of timely Harry North. The Blue Cephalopod Man triumphed again, this time over things from the sixth planet of Orionus. And a good thing, too, because these particular things were an abomination; the artist had outdone himself.
“You find that interesting?” one of the KVB men inquired.
I find, Lars thought, it interesting inasmuch as the writer and/or illustrator has made use of KACH to pirate a few of my most technologically interesting ideas. I wonder if there are grounds for a civil suit.
However, now was not the time. He put the comic book away.
The hopper landed on a roof; the engine ceased turning and the door was at once held open for him so that he could disemhopper.
“This is a motel,” one of the artificially precise of speech KVB men explained to him. “Miss Topchev occupies the entire establishment. We have cleared out the other guests and posted security sentries. You will not be disturbed.”
“Really? On the level?”
The KVB man reflected, turning the phrase about in his mind. “You may call for assistance at any time,” he said at last. “And of course for maintenance-service such as sandwiches, coffee, liquor.”
“Drugs?”
The KVB man turned his head. Like solemn owls, all four men stared at Lars.
“I’m on drugs,” Lars explained. “I thought KACH had told you that, God. I take them hourly!”
“What drugs?” The inquiry was cautious, if not downright drenched with suspicion.
Lars said, “Escalatium.”
That did it. Consternation. “But Mr. Lars! Escalatium is brain-toxic! You wouldn’t live six months!”
“I also take Conjorizine,” Lars said. “It balances the metabolic toxicity. I mix them together, grind them into a powder with a round teaspoon, make the mixture into a water-soluble near precipitate and take it as an injectable—”
“But, sir, you’d die! From motor-vascular convulsions. Within half an hour.” The four Soviet policemen looked appalled.
“All I ever got as a side-effect,” Lars said, “was postnasal drip.”
The four KVB men conferred and then one of them said to Lars, “We will have your Wes-bloc physician, Dr. Todt, flown here. He can supervise your drug-injection procedures. Ourselves, we can’t take responsibility. Is this stimulant-combination essential for your trance-state to happen?”
“Yep.”
Again they conferred. “Go below,” they instructed him, at last. “You will join Miss Topchev—who does not to our knowledge rely on drugs. Stay with her until we can produce Dr. Todt and your two medications.”
They glowered at him severely. “You should have told us or brought the drugs and Dr. Todt with you! The Wes-bloc authorities did not inform us.” Clearly, they were sincerely angry.
“Okay,” Lars said, and started toward the down-ramp.
A moment later, accompanied by one of the KVB men, he stood at the door of Lilo Topchev’s motel room.
“I’m scared,” he said, aloud.
The KVB man knocked. “Afraid, Mr. Lars, to pit your talent against that of our medium’s?” The mocking overtones were enormous.
Lars said, “No, not that.” Afraid, he thought, that Lilo will be what Kaminsky had said, a blackened, shriveled, dried-up leather-like stick of bones and skin, like a discarded purse. Consumed, perhaps, by her vocational demands. God knows what she may have been forced to give by her “client.” Because they are much harsher on this side of the world… as we have known all along.
In fact, he realized, that might explain why General Nitz wanted our joint efforts as weapons design to take place under the administration of Peep-East, not Wes-bloc authority. Nitz recognizes that more decisive pressures are brought to bear here. He may think that under them I will function better.
In other words, Lars thought dully, that I’ve been holding back all these years. But here, under KVB jurisdiction, under the eyes of the Soviet Union’s highest body, the SeRKeb, it will be different.
General Nitz had more faith in Peep-East’s capacities to wrest results from its employees than in his own establishment’s. What a queer, bewildering, yet somehow true-ringing last little touch. And, Lars realized, I believe it, too. Because it’s probably actually the case. The door opened and there stood Lilo Topchev. She wore a black jersey sweater, slacks and sandals, her hair tied back with a ribbon. She looked, was, no more than seventeen or eighteen. Her figure was that of an adolescent just reaching toward maturity. In one hand she held a cigar and held it wrongly, awkwardly, obviously trying to appear grown-up, to impress him and the KVB man.
Lars said huskily, “I’m Lars Powderdry.” Smiling, she held out her hand. It was small, smooth, cool, crushable; it was accepted by him gingerly, with the greatest deference. He felt as if by one unfortunate squeeze he could impair it forever. “Hi,” she said. The KVB man bumped him bodily inside the room. And the door shut after him, with the KVB man on the other side.
He was alone with Lilo Topchev. The dream had come to pass.
“How about a beer?” she said. He observed when she spoke that her teeth were exceedingly regular, tiny and even. German-woman-like. Nordic, not Slavic.
“You’ve got a damn good grasp of English,” he said. “I wondered how they’d solve the language-barrier.” He had anticipated a deft, self-deprecating, but always present, third-person-on-hand translator. “Where’d you learn it?” he asked her.
“In school.”
“You’re telling the truth? You’ve never been to Wes-bloc?”
“I’ve never been out of the Soviet Union before,” Lilo Topchev said. “In fact most of Peep-East, especially the Sino-dominated regions, are out of bounds to me.” Walking lithely to the kitchen of the more or less cog-class luxurious motel suite to get him the can of beer, she gestured suddenly, attracting his attention. She nodded toward the far wall. And then facing him, her back to the wall, she formed with her lips—but did not say aloud—the word bug.
A video-audio system was busily monitoring them. Of course. How could it be otherwise? Here comes the chopper, Lars thought, remembering Orwell’s great old classic, 1984. Only in this case we know we’re under scrutiny and, at least theoretically, it’s by our good friends. We’re all friends, now. Except that as Aksel Kaminsky said, and truthfully, if we do not manage to properly jump through the flaming hoop, Lilo and I, our good friends will murder us.
But who can blame them? Orwell missed that point. They might be right and we might be wrong.
She brought him the beer.
“Lots of luck,” Lilo said, smiling.
He thought, I’m already in love with you.
Will they kill us, he thought, for that? God help them if so. Because they and their joint civilization, East and West, would not be worth preserving at that price.
“What’s this about drugs?” Lilo said. “I heard you talking with the police outside. Was that true or were you just—you know—making their job difficult?”