It was true. So evidently Goltz had been correct.
‘I think,’ Molly said presently, ‘we’ve come on a wild goose chase.’ She opened the door of the auto-cab and hopped gingerly out. The soil, under her feet, sank squashily. She made a face.
‘The chuppers,’ Nat said. ‘We can always record the music of the chuppers. If they have any.’ He too, climbed out; he stood beside Molly and they both gazed at the big old house, neither of them speaking.
It was a melancholy scene; no doubt of that. Hands in his pockets, Nat walked towards the house. He came up on to a gravel path which passed between elderly fuchsia and camellia bushes. Presently Molly followed. Jim Planck remained in the car.
‘Let’s get it over with and then let’s get out of here,’ Molly said, and shivered, terribly cold in her bright cotton blouse and shorts.
Nat put his arm around her.
‘What’s that for?’ she demanded.
‘Nothing in particular. I just felt fond of you, all of a sudden. I’d be fond of anything, right now, that wasn’t damp and squishy.’ He hugged her briefly. ‘Don’t I make you feel a little better?’
‘No.’ Molly said. ‘Or maybe yes; I don’t know.’ She sounded irritable. ‘Go on up on to the porch, for chrissakes, and knock!’ Pulling away from him she gave him a push forward.
Nat ascended the sagging wooden steps, on to the porch, and rang the doorbell.
‘I feel sick,’ Molly said. ‘Why is that?’
‘The humidity.’ Nat found it overwhelming, oppressive; he could hardly breathe. He wondered what the weather would do to the Ganymedean life form which was his recording apparatus; it liked moisture and so perhaps it would flourish, here. Perhaps the Ampek F-a2 could even live here on its own, survive in the rain forest indefinitely. This environment, he realized, is more alien to us than Mars would be. It was a sobering thought Mars and Tijuana … closer than Jenner and Tijuana. Ecologically speaking.
The door opened. A woman wearing a pale yellow smock faced him, stood blocking the entrance and regarding him quietly, her brown eyes calm but oddly wary.
‘Mrs. Kongrosian?’ he said. Beth Kongrosian was not bad looking. Her hair, tied back with a ribbon, was light brown, long; she might have been in her late twenties or early thirties. In any case she was slender and she stood well. He found himself studying her with respect and interest.
‘You’re from the recording studio?’ Her voice, low, had a toneless quality, a peculiar lack of affect. ‘Mr Dondoldo phoned and said you were on your way. It’s a shame. You can come inside if you want, but Richard isn’t here.’ She held the door wide, then. ‘Richard is in the hospital, down in San Francisco.’
Christ, he thought. What lousy, miserable luck. He turned to Molly and they exchanged glances mutely.
‘Please come in,’ Beth Kongrosian said. ‘Let me fix you coffee or dinner or something before you turn around and start back; it’s such a long way.’
Nat said to Molly, ‘Go back and tell Jim. I’d like to take Mrs Kongrosian up on her offer; I could use a cup of coffee.’
Turning, Molly started back down the steps.
‘You look tired,’ Beth Kongrosian said. ‘Are you Mr Flieger? I wrote the name down; Mr Dondoldo gave it to me. I know Richard would have been glad to record for you, if he were here; that’s why it’s all such a shame.’ She led him into the living room. It was dark and cool, crowded with wicker furniture, but at least dry. ‘A drink,’ she said. ‘What about gin and tonic? Or I have Scotch. What about Scotch on the rocks?’
‘Just coffee,’ Nat said. ‘Thanks.’ He inspected a photograph on the wall; it showed him a scene in which a man swung a small baby on a tall metal swing. ‘Is this your son?’
The woman, however, had gone.
He looked closer. The baby in the photograph had the chupper jaw.
Behind him, Molly and Jim Planck appeared. He waved them over, and they both examined the picture.
‘Music,’ Nat said. ‘I wonder if they have any music.’
‘They can’t sing,’ Molly said. ‘How could they sing if they can’t talk?’ She walked away from the picture and stood with her arms folded, looking through the living room window at the palm tree outside. ‘What an ugly tree.’ She turned to Nat. ‘Don’t you agree?’
‘I think,’ he said, ‘that there’s room in the world for life of every kind.’
Jim Planck said quietly, ‘I agree.’
Returning to the living room, Beth Kongrosian said to Jim Planck and Molly, ‘What would you two like? Coffee? A drink? Something to eat?’
They conferred.
At his office in the Administration Building of Karp u. Sohnen Werke, Detroit Branch, Vince Strikerock received a phone call from his wife — or rather his ex-wife — Julie. Now Julie Applequist again, as she had been when he first met her. Looking lovely but worried and wildly distracted, Julie said, ‘Vince, that goddam brother of yours he’s gone.’ Wide-eyed, she gazed at him beseechingly. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
He said in a deliberate, calming voice, ‘Gone where, Julie?’
‘I think — ‘ She choked over the words. ‘Vince, he left me to emigrate; we talked about emigrating and I didn’t want to, and I know he’s gone ahead alone. He was determined to; I realize that now. I just didn’t take it seriously enough.’ Tears filled her eyes.
Behind Vince, his superior appeared. ‘Herr Anton Karp wants to see you in Suite Four. As soon as possible.’ He glared at the screen, recognizing this as a personal call.
‘Julie,’ Vince said clumsily, ‘I have to get off the line.’
‘Okay,’ she said, nodding. ‘But do something for me. Find Chic. Won’t you please? I’ll never ask you for anything else again. I promise. I just have to have him back.’
I knew it wouldn’t work out between you two, Vince said to himself. He experienced grim relish. Too bad, dear, he thought. Tough! You made a mistake; I know Chic and I know that women like you petrify him. You scared him into running, and he’ll never stop or look back, now that he’s begun. Because it’s a one-way trip.
Aloud, he said, ‘I’ll do what I can.’
‘Thanks, Vince,’ she breathed tearfully. ‘Even if I don’t actively love you any more I still — ‘
‘Goodbye,’ he said, and rang off.
A moment later he was ascending by elevator to Suite Four.
As soon as Anton Karp spied him Karp said, ‘Herr Strikerock, I understand that your brother is employed by a miserably tiny firm by the name of Frauenzimmer Associates. Is that correct?’ Karp’s heavy, sombre face was twisted with tension.
‘Yes,’ Vince said slowly, with great caution. ‘But — ‘ He hesitated. Obviously if Chic was emigrating he would be leaving his job; he could hardly take it with him.
What did Karp want? Better be on the safe side and not say anything unnecessary. ‘But, um … ‘
Karp said, ‘Can he get you in there?’
Blinking, Vince said, ‘Y-you mean on the premises? As a visitor? Or do you mean — ‘ He could feel apprehension mounting inside him as the cold blue eyes of the middleaged German ersatz industrialist bored into him. ‘I don’t quite understand, Herr Karp,’ he mumbled.
‘Today,’ Karp said in a brisk, harsh staccato, ‘the government let the simulacrum contract to Herr Frauenzimmer. We have studied the situation and our response is dictated by circumstances themselves. Because of this order, Frauenzimmer will expand; he will take on new employees. I want you, through your brother, to go to work for them, as soon as you can arrange it. Possibly today.’
Vince stared at him.
‘What’s the matter?’ Karp said.
‘I’m — surprised,’ Vince managed to say.
‘As soon as Frauenzimmer’s taken you on, inform me direct; don’t talk to anyone else but me.’ Karp paced about the large carpeted room, scratching his nose vigorously.
‘We’ll tell you what to do next. That’s all for now, Herr Strikerock.’
‘Does it matter what I do there?’ Vince asked weakly. ‘I mean, is it important exactly what my job is?’
‘No,’ Karp said.
Vince left the suite; the door at once slid shut after him.
He stood alone in the corridor, trying to reassemble his scattered, disorganized faculties. My god, he thought. They want me to throw my sabots into Frauenzimmer’s assembly line; I know it. Sabotage or spying, one or the other; anyhow something illegal, something that’ll bring the NP down on me — me, not the Karps.
My own brother’s outfit, too, he said to himself.
He felt utterly impotent. They could make him do anything they wanted; all the Karps had to do was lift their little finger.
And I’ll give in, he realized.
He returned to his own office, shakily seated himself with the door shut; alone, he sat silently at his desk, smoking an ersatz-tobacco cigar and pondering. His hands, he discovered, were numb.