‘Not before now,’ Strikerock said. ‘But we both have the same problem; we’re invisible, here on Earth. So to speak.’
‘That’s right,’ Kongrosian put in. I’ve become totally invisible to the human eye; obviously it’s time to emigrate.’
‘Yes, if that’s the case I would say so,’ Mr Miller agreed tartly.
The man on the telephone said, ‘My name is Merrill Judd, of A.G. Chemie. I’m sorry to bother you — ‘
‘Go ahead,’ Janet Raimer said, seating herself at her neat, small idiosyncratically-arranged desk. She nodded to her secretary, who at once shut the office door, cutting out the noises from the White House corridor outside. ‘You say this has to do with Richard Kongrosian.’
‘That’s right.’ On the screen, Merrill Judd’s miniature face image nodded. ‘And for that reason it occurred to me to contact you, because of the close ties between Kongrosian and the White House. It seemed reasonable to me that you’d want to know. I tried, about half an hour ago, to visit Kongrosian at Franklin Aimes Neuropsychiatric Hospital in San Francisco. He was gone. The staff there couldn’t locate him.’
‘I see,’ Janet Raimer said.
‘Evidently he’s quite ill. From what he said to me — ‘
‘Yes,’ Janet said, ‘he’s quite ill. Do you have any other information for us? If not, I’d like to get started on this right away.’
The A.G. Chemie psych-chemist had no other information. He rang off, and Janet dialled an inside line, trying several White House stations until at last she managed to reach her nominal superior, Harold Slezak.
‘Kongrosian has left the hospital and vanished. God knows where he may have gone, possibly back to Jenner we should check that, of course. Frankly, I think the NP should be brought in; Kongrosian is vital.’
‘ “Vital,” ‘ Slezak echoed, wrinkling his nose. ‘Well, let’s say rather that we like him. We’d prefer not to have to make do without him. I’ll obtain Nicole’s permission to involve the police; I think you’re right in your estimate of the situation.’ Slezak , with no amities, rang off then. Janet hung up the phone.
She had done all she could do; it was now out of her hands.
The next thing she knew, an NP man was in her office, notebook in hand. Wilder Pembroke — she had run into him many times when he held lesser positions — seated himself across from her and began to take notes. ‘I’ve already checked with Franklin Aimes.’ The Commissioner regarded her thoughtfully. ‘It seems that Kongrosian made a phone call to Dr Egon Superb — you know who he is: the sole remaining psychoanalyst. He left not much after that. To your knowledge, was Kongrosian seeing Superb?’
‘Yes of course,’ Janet said. ‘For some time.’
‘Where do you think he would go?’
‘Except for Jenner — ‘
‘He’s not there. We’ve got somebody in the area, now.’
‘Then I don’t know, Ask Superb.’
‘We’re doing that,’ Pembroke said.
She laughed. ‘Maybe he’s joined Bertold Goltz.’
The Commissioner, not amused, his flat face hard, said, ‘We’ll look into that of course. And there’s always the possibility he ran into one of those Loony Luke lots, those fly-by-night jalopy jungles. They seem somehow to show up at the appropriate time and place. God knows how they manage it but they do, somehow. Of all the possibilities — ‘ Pembroke was speaking half to himself; he seemed quite agitated. ‘As far as I’m concerned that’s the very worst.’
‘Kongrosian would never go to Mars,’ Janet said.
‘There’s no market for his talents, there; they don’t need concert pianists. And underneath his eccentric, artistic exterior, Richard is shrewd. He would be aware of that.’
‘Maybe he’s given up playing,’ Pembroke said. ‘For something better.’
‘I wonder what sort of farmer a psychokinetic would make.’
Pembroke said, ‘Maybe that’s exactly what Kongrosian is wondering at this moment, too.’
‘I — would think he’d want to take his wife and son.’
‘Perhaps not. Maybe that’s the entire point. Have you seen the boy? The offspring? Do you know about the Jenner area and what’s happened, there?’
‘Yes,’ she said tightly.
‘Then you understand.’
They were both silent.
Ian Duncan was just seating himself in the comfortable leather-covered chair across from Dr Egon Superb when the squad of NP men burst into the office.
‘You’ll have to disburse your healing a little later,’ the young, sharp-chinned NP squad leader said as he briefly showed Dr Superb his credentials. ‘Richard Kongrosian has disappeared from Franklin Aimes and we are trying to locate him. Has he contacted you?’
‘Not since leaving the hospital,’ Dr Superb said. ‘He called me earlier while he was still — ‘
‘We know about that.’ The NP man eyed Superb. ‘What do you think are the chances that Kongrosian has joined the Sons of Job?’
Superb said at once, ‘None whatsoever.’
‘All right.’ The NP man noted that. ‘In your opinion, is there any chance he might have approached the Loony Luke people? Emigrated, or be attempting to emigrate, by means of a jalopy?’
After a long pause Dr Superb said, ‘I think the chances are excellent. He needs — seeks perpetually — isolation.’
The NP leader closed his notebook, turned to his squad and said, ‘Then that’s it. The lots will have to be closed.’
Into his portable corn-system he said, ‘Dr Superb concurs with the lot idea but not with the Sons of Job. I think we should go along with him; the doctor seems to be certain. Check at once in the San Francisco area, see if a lot has shown up there. Thanks.’ He rang off, then said to Dr Superb, ‘We appreciate your help. If he does contact you, notify us.’ He laid his card on Dr Superb’s desk.
‘Don’t — be rough on him,’ Dr Superb said. ‘If you do find him. He’s very, very ill.’
The NP man glanced at him, smiled slightly, and then the squad of them left the office; the door shut after them. Ian Duncan and Dr Superb were again alone.
In a peculiar, hoarse voice Ian Duncan said, ‘I’ll have to consult with you some other time.’ He rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘Goodbye.’
‘What’s wrong?’ Dr Superb said, also rising.
‘I’ve got to go.’
Ian Duncan plucked at the door, managed to open it, disappeared; the door slammed.
Strange, Dr Superb thought. The man — Duncan, was it? — didn’t even have an opportunity to begin discussing his problem with me. Why did the appearance of the NP upset him so? Pondering, but finding no answer, Dr Superb reseated himself and buzzed Amanda Conners to send in the next patient; a whole waiting room full of them waited outside, the men surreptitiously (and many of the women, too) watching Amanda and every move she made.
‘Yes, doctor,’ Amanda’s sweet voice came, cheering up Dr Superb more than a little.
As soon as he was out of the doctor’s office Ian Duncan searched frantically for an auto-cab. Al was here in San Francisco; he knew that. Al had given him a schedule of the Number Three Lot’s pattern of appearances. They would get Al. It was the end of Duncan & Miller, Classic Jugs.
A sleek, modern auto-cab called to him, ‘KinIhelpya, fella?’
‘Yes,’ Ian Duncan gasped, and started out into traffic to meet it.
This gives me a chance, he said to himself as the auto-cab streaked for the destination he had given it. But they’ll get there first. Or will they? The police would have to comb virtually the entire city, and block by block; whereas he knew and was heading for, the exact spot where Lot Number Three could be found. So perhaps he had a chance — a slim one — after all.
If they get you, Al, he said to himself, it’s the end of me, too.
I can’t go on alone. I’ll join Goltz or die, something dreadful like that. It doesn’t matter what.
The auto-cab hurtled across town, on its way to Loony Luke’s Jalopy Jungle Number Three.
11
Nat Flieger wondered, idly, if the chuppers had any ethnic music. EME was, in its impartial way, always interested. But still, that was not their task, here; ahead now lay the home of Richard Kongrosian, a pale green wooden frame building, three storey, with — incredibly — an ancient, brown, untrimmed, ragged palm tree growing in the front yard.
‘We’ve arrived.’ Molly murmured.
The antique auto-cab slowed, gave forth a grating, indecisive racket, and then shut itself entirely off. It coasted to a stop and then there was silence. Nat listened to the far-off wind moving through the trees, and the faint spattering rhythm of the mist-like rain as it fell everywhere, on the cab and the foliage, the unkempt old wooden house with its tarpapered sun deck and many small, square windows, several of which were broken.
Jim Planck lit a Corina corona and said, ‘No signs of life.’