‘I’ve — heard rumours.’ Nat shrugged.
‘You’re not a Ge,’ Goltz said. ‘You’re like me, Flieger, me and my people. You’re forever on the outside. We’re not even supposed to hear rumours. There shouldn’t have been a leak. But we Bes are not going to talk — do you agree! Bringing Fat Hermann from the past into our time is just too much, wouldn’t you say?’ He studied Nat’s face, waiting for his reaction.
Presently Nat said, ‘If it’s true — ‘
‘It’s true, Flieger.’ Goltz nodded.
‘Then it puts your movement in a new light.’
‘Come and see me,’ Goltz said. ‘When the news is made public. When you know it’s true. Okay?’
Nat said nothing. He did not meet the man’s dark intense gaze.
‘So long, Flieger.’ Goltz said. And picking up his banner, which had been resting against the auto-cab, he strode on down the street to rejoin his marching followers.
7
Seated together in the business office of The Abraham Lincoln, Don Tishman and Patrick Doyle studied the application which Mr Ian Duncan of number 304 had just now filed with them. Ian Duncan desired to appear in the twiceweekly building talent show, and at a time when a White House talent scout was present.
The request, Tishman saw, was routine. Except that Ian Duncan proposed to perform his act in conjunction with another individual who did not live at The Abraham Lincoln.
Pondering, Doyle said, ‘It’s an old buddy of his from the Military Service. He told me once; the two of them used to have this act years ago. Baroque music on two jugs. A novelty.’
‘What apartment house does his partner live in?’ Tishman inquired. Approval of the application would depend on how relations stood between The Abraham Lincoln and the other building.
‘None. He sells jalopies for that — Loony Luke — you know. Those cheap little vehicles that just barely manage to get you to Mars. He lives on the lot, I understand. The lots move around; it’s a nomadic existence. I’m sure you’ve heard.’
‘Yes,’ Tishman agreed, ‘and it’s totally out of the question. We can’t have that act on our stage, not with a man like that involved in it. There’s no reason why Ian can’t play his jug; I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s a satisfactory act. But it’s against our tradition to have an outsider participate; our stage is for our own people exclusively, always has been, and always will. So there’s no need even to discuss this.’ He eyed the skypilot critically.
‘True,’ Doyle said, ‘but it’s legal for one of us to invite a relative to watch the talent shows … so why not an army buddy? Why not let him participate? This means a lot to Ian: I think you know he’s been failing lately. He’s not a very intelligent person. Actually, he should be doing a manual job, I suppose. But if he has artistic ability, for instance this job concept — ‘
Examining his documents, Tishman saw that the highest White House scout would be attending a show at The Abraham Lincoln, Miss Janet Raimer. The top acts at the building would of course be scheduled that night … so Duncan & Miller and their baroque jug band would have to compete successfully in order to obtain that privilege, and there were a number of acts which — Tishman thought were probably superior. After all, jugs … and not even electronic jugs, at that.
‘All right,’ he decided aloud. ‘I agree.’
‘You’re showing your human side,’ Doyle said, with an expression of sentimentality which disgusted Tishman. ‘And I think we’ll all enjoy the Bach and Vivaldi as played by Duncan & Miller on their inimitable jugs.’
Tishman, wincing, nodded.
It was old Joe Purd, the most ancient resident of the building, who informed Vince Strikerock that his wife — or more exactly his ex-wife — Julie was living upstairs on the top floor with Chic. Had been all this time.
My own brother, Vince said to himself, incredulous.
The time was late evening, almost eleven o’clock, close to curfew. Never the less, Vince headed at once for an elevator and a moment later was ascending to the top floor of The Abraham Lincoln.
I’ll kill him, he decided. Kill both of them, in fact.
And I’ll probably get off, he conjectured, before a jury selected at random from among the residents of the building, because after all I’m official identification reader; everybody knows me and respects me. I have their confidence.
And what position does Chic hold, here? And also I work for a really huge cartel, Karp u. Sohnen, whereas Chic works for a flea-sized outfit on the verge of collapse. And everyone here knows that, too. Facts like that are important. You have to weigh them, take them into account. Whether you approve of it or not.
And in addition, the pure unadulterated fact that Vince Strikerock was a Ge and Chic was not would alone positively ensure his acquittal.
At the door of Chic’s apartment he paused, not knocking but merely standing there in the hall, uncertainly. This is awful, he said to himself. He was actually very fond of his older brother, who had helped raise him. Didn’t Chic really mean more to him than even Julie? No. Nothing and no one meant more to him than Julie.
Raising his hand he knocked.
The door opened. There stood Chic, in his blue dressing gown, a magazine in one hand. He looked a little older, more tired and bald and depressed, than usual.
‘Now I realize why you haven’t dropped by and tried to cheer me up,’ Vince said, ‘during these last couple of days. How could you, with Julie living up here?’
Chic said, ‘Come on in.’ He held the door wide. Wearily, he led his brother into the small living room. ‘I suppose you’re going to give me a hard time,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘As if I didn’t have enough already. My goddam firm’s about to close down — ‘
‘Who cares,’ Vince said, panting. ‘It’s what you deserve.’
He looked around for Julie but did not see her or any sign of her belongings. Could old Joe Purd have been wrong? Impossible. Purd knew everything that went on in the building; gossip was his whole life. He was an authority.
‘I heard something interesting on the news tonight,’ Chic said as he seated himself on the couch facing his younger brother. ‘The government has decided to allow an exception in the application of the McPhearson Act. A psychoanalyst named Egon — ‘
‘Listen,’ Vince broke in. ‘Where is she?’
‘I’ve got troubles enough without you jumping on me.’
Chic eyed his younger brother. ‘I’ll flip you for her.’
Vince Strikerock choked with rage.
‘A joke,’ Chic murmured woodenly. ‘Sorry I said it; don’t know why I said it. She’s out somewhere buying clothes. She’s expensive to keep, isn’t she? You should have warned me. Put up a notice on the building’s bulletin board. But I’ll tell you seriously what I propose. I want you to get me into Karp und Sohnen Werke. Ever since Julie showed up here I’ve been thinking about this. Call it a deal.’
‘No deal.’
‘Then no Julie.’
Vince said, ‘What kind of job do you want with Karp?’
‘Anything. Well, anything in public relations, sales or promotion; not in the engineering or manufacturing end. The same type of work I’ve been doing for Maury Frauenzimmer. Clean hands type of work.’
His voice shaking, Vince said, ‘I’ll get you in as assistant shipping clerk.’
Chic laughed sharply. ‘That’s a good one. And I’ll give you back Julie’s left foot.’
‘Jesus.’ Vince stared at him, unable to believe his ears. ‘You’re depraved or something.’
‘Not at all. I’m in a very bad position, careerwise. All I have to bargain with is your ex-wife. What am I supposed to do? Sink obligingly into oblivion? The hell with that; I’m fighting to exist.’ Chic seemed calm, fully rational.
‘Do you love her?’ Vince said.
Now, for the first time, his brother’s composure seemed to leave him. ‘What? Oh sure, I’m out of my mind with love for her — can’t you perceive that? How can you ask?’ His tone was violently bitter. ‘That’s why I’m going to trade her back to you for a job at Karp. Listen Vince, she’s a cold, hostile cookie — she’s out for herself and no one else. As far as I can ascertain she came up here merely to hurt you. Ponder that. I tell you what. We’ve got a bad problem here, you and I, with Julie; it’s ruining our lives. You agree? I think we should take it to an expert. Frankly it’s too much for me. I can’t solve it.’
‘What expert?’
‘Any expert. For instance the building marital guidance counsellor. Or let’s take it to the last remaining psychoanalyst in the USEA, that Dr Egon Superb they told about on the TV. Let’s go to him before they shut him down, too. What do you say? You know I’m right; you and I’ll never manage to thrash this out.’ He added. ‘And come out alive, anyhow the two of us.’