“Here goes,” Gates said. The generators were on, and now the overhead lights flickered. “Back in business.”
“For awhile,” Allen said.
The screen of Janet Purcell’s television set was small; it was the portable unit that Allen had brought. She lay propped up on the couch in their one-room apartment, waiting for the image to return. Presently it did.
“. . . . d,” Professor Sugermann was saying. The image faded and darkened, then ebbed into distortion. “But broiling was favored, I believe.”
“Not according to my information,” Doctor Gleeby corrected.
“Our discussion,” the moderator, her husband, said, “really concerns the use of active assimilation in the present-day world. Now it has been suggested that active assimilation as a punitive policy be revived to deal with the current wave of anarchy. Would you care to comment on that, Doctor Gleeby?”
“Certainly.” Doctor Gleeby knocked dottle from his pipe into the ash tray in the center of the table. “We must remember that active assimilation was primarily a solution to problems of nutrition, not, as is often supposed, a weapon to convert hostile elements. Naturally I’m gravely concerned with the outbreak of violence and vandalism today, as epitomized by this really dreadful japery of the Park statue, but we can scarcely be said to suffer from a nutritional problem. After all, the autofac system—”
“Historically,” Professor Sugermann interrupted, “you may have a point, Doctor. But from the standpoint of efficacy: what would be the effects on these present-day ‘impossibles’? Wouldn’t the threat of being boiled and eaten act as a deterrent to their hostile impulses? There would be a strong subconscious inhibitory effect, I’m sure.”
“To me,” Mr. Gates agreed, “it seems that allowing these anti-social individuals merely to run away, hide, take refuge at the Health Resort, has made it far too easy. We’ve permitted our dissident elements to do their mischief and then escape scot-free. That’s certainly encouraged them to expand their activities. Now, if they knew they’d be eaten—”
“It’s well known,” Mr. Priar said, “that the severity of punitive action doesn’t decrease the frequency of a given crime. They once hanged pickpockets, you realize. It had no effect. That’s quite an outmoded theory, Mr. Gates.”
“But, to get back to the main discussion,” the moderator said, “are we certain that no nutritional effects would accrue from the eating, rather than the expulsion, of our criminals? Professor Sugermann, as an historian, can you tell us what the general public attitude was toward the use, in everyday cookery, of boiled enemy?”
On the TV screen appeared a collection of historical relics: six-foot broiling racks, huge human-sized platters, various cutlery. Jars of spices. Immense-pronged forks. Knives. Recipe books.
“It was clearly an art,” Professor Sugermann said. “Properly prepared, boiled enemy was a gourmet’s delight. We have the Major’s own words on this subject.” Professor Sugermann, again visible, unfolded his notes. “Toward the end of his life the Major ate only, or nearly only, boiled enemy. It was a great favorite of his wife’s, and, as we’ve said, her recipes are regarded as among the finest extant. E. B. Erickson once estimated that Major Streiter and his immediate family must have personally assimilated at least six hundred fully-grown ‘impossibles.’ So there you have the more or less official opinion.”
Whamp! the TV screen went, and again the image died. A kaleidoscopic procession of colors, patterns, dots passed rapidly; from the speaker emerged squawks of protest, whines, squeals.
“. . . a tradition in the Streiter family. The Major’s grandson is said to have expressed great preference for . . .”
Again silence. Then sputters, garbled visual images.
“. . . so I cannot over-emphasize my support of this program. The effects—” More confusion, sounds and flickers. A sudden roar of static. “. . . would be an object lesson as well as the contemporary restoration of boiled enemy to its proper place on—”
The TV screen gurgled, died, returned briefly to life.
“. . . may be the test one way or another. Were there others?”
Allen’s voice was heard: “Several, supposedly now being rounded up.”
“But they caught the ringleader! And Mrs. Hoyt herself has expressed—”
More interference. The screen showed a news announcer standing at the table with the four participants. Mr. Allen Purcell, the moderator, was examining a news dispatch.
“. . . assimilation in the actual historic vessels employed by her family. After tasting a carefully-prepared sample of boiled conspirator, Mrs. Ida Pease Hoyt has pronounced the dish ‘highly savory,’ and ‘fit to grace the tables of—’ “
Again the image died, and this time for good. Within a few moments a mysterious voice, not part of the discussion, became suddenly audible, declaring:
“Because of technical difficulties it is suggested that viewers turn off their sets for the balance of the evening. There will be no further transmission tonight.”
The statement was repeated every few minutes. It had the harsh overtones of the Cohorts of Major Streiter. Janet, propped up on the couch, understood that the powers had regained control. She wondered if her husband was all right.
“Technical difficulties,” the official voice said. “Turn off your sets.”
She left hers on, and waited.
“That’s it,” Allen said.
From the darkness Sugermann said: “We got it over, though. They cut us off, but not in time.”
Cigarette lighters and matches came on, and the office re-emerged. Allen felt buoyed up with triumph. “We might as well go home. We did our job; we put the japery through.”
“May be sort of hard to get home,” Coates said. “The Cohorts are hanging around out there, waiting for you. The finger’s on you, Allen.”
Allen thought of Janet alone in the apartment. If they wanted him they’d certainly try there. “I should go after my wife,” he said to Sugermann;
“Downstairs,” Sugermann said, “is a Getabout you dan use. Gates, get down there with him; show him where it is.”
“No,” Allen said. “I can’t walk out on you people.” Especially on Harry Priar and Joe Gleeby; they had no Hokkaido to lose themselves in. “I can’t leave you to be picked off.”
“The biggest favor you can do us,” Gleeby said, “is to get out of here. They don’t care about us; they know who thought this japery up.” He shook his head. “Cannibalism. Gourmet’s delight. Mrs. Streiter’s own recipes. You better get moving.”
Priar added: “That’s the price you pay for talent. It shows a mile off.”
Getting a firm grip on Allen’s shoulder, Sugermann propelled him to the office door. “Show him the Getabout,” he ordered Gates. “But keep him down while you’re out there; the Cohorts are the wrath of God.”
As Allen and Gates descended the long flight of stairs to the ground floor, Gates said: “You happy?”
“Yes, except for Janet.” And he would miss the people he had assembled. It had been satisfactory and wonderful to concoct the japery with Gates and Sugermann, Gleeby and Priar.
“Maybe they caught her and boiled her.” Gates giggled, and the match he held swayed. “That isn’t probable. Don’t worry about it.”
He wasn’t worried about that, but he wished he had planned for the Committee’s prompt reaction. “They weren’t exactly asleep,” he murmured.
A herd of technicians raced past them, shining flashlights ahead along the stairs. “Get out,” they chanted. “Get out, get out.” The racket of their descent echoed and faded.
“All finished,” Gates snickered. “Here we go.”
They had reached the lobby. T-M employees milled in the darkness; some were stepping through the barricade out into the evening lane. The headlights of Getabouts flashed, and voices called back and forth, a confusion of catcalls and fun. The indistinct activity was party-like; but now it was time to leave.
“Here,” Gates said, pushing through a gap in the barricade. Allen followed, and they were on the lane. Behind them the Telemedia building was huge and somber, deprived of its power: extinguished. The parked Getabout was moist with night mist as Gates and Allen climbed into it and slammed the doors.
“I’ll drive,” Allen said. He snapped on the motor, and the Getabout glided steamily out onto the lane. After a block he switched on the headlights.
As he turned at an intersection another Getabout rolled out after him. Gates saw it and began whooping with glee.
“Here they come—let’s go!”
Allen pushed the Getabout to its top speed, perhaps thirty-five miles an hour. Pedestrians ran wildly. In the rear-view mirror he could make out faces within the pursuing Get-about. Ralf Hadler was driving. Beside him was Fred Luddy. And in the back seat was Tony Blake of Blake-Moffet.
Leaning out, Gates shouted back: “Boil, bake, fry! Boil, bake, fry! Try and catch,us!”
His face expressionless, Hadler lifted a pistol and fired. The shot whistled past Gates, who ducked instantly in.
“We’re going to jump,” Allen said. The Getabout was nearing a sharp curve. “Grab hold.” He forced the tiller as far as it would go. “We have to stop first.”