“Quite a feat,” Kaminski admitted, as the man and woman put on their clothing, bowed, and left the stage. They had exchanged clothes: the final effect was overwhelming. A round of sincere applause rippled through the room: the couple were artists. “I remember when I first saw hermaphrodite mutants in action. Now it seems just one more”—Kaminski searched ironically—“one more example of Relativism in action.”
For a while none of the four people spoke. Finally Tyler said: “I wonder how far we can go.”
“I think we’ve gone as far as we can,” Cussick answered. “All we can hope for now is to hang on.”
“Did we go too far?” Kaminski asked, appealingly.
“No,” Cussick said flatly. “We were right. We’re right now. It’s a paradox, a contradiction, a criminal offense to say it. But we’re right. Secretly, covertly, we’ve got to believe it.” His fingers clutched convulsively around his wife’s cold hand. “We’ve got to try to keep our world from falling completely apart.”
“Maybe it’s too late,” Kaminski said.
“Yes,” Nina agreed suddenly. “It’s too late.” Her fingers jerked away from Cussick’s. Jaw working spasmodically, she hunched forward, teeth chattering, pupils dilated. “Please, darling—“
Cussick rose, and Tyler beside him. “I’ll take care of her,” Tyler said, moving around the table to Nina. “Where’s the women’s room?”
“Thanks,” Kaminski said, accepting a cigarette from Cussick. The women had not returned. As he lit up, Kaminski remarked: “I suppose you know Jones has written a book.”
“Different from the Patriots United publications?”
From the floor by the table Kaminski lifted up his brown-wrapped package; he untied it carefully. “This is a summary. The Moral Struggle it’s called. It outlines his whole program: what he really wants, what he really stands for. The mythos of the movement.” He set the bulky volume down in the center of the table and riffled the pages.
“Have you read this?” Cussick asked, examining it.
“Not the whole thing. It isn’t complete; Jones is pontificating it orally. The book is transcribed from his harangues… it’s growing by leaps and bounds.”
“What did you mean,” Cussick asked, “when you said we were near them? Who were you talking about?”
A strange, oblique, withdrawn look appeared on the older man’s face. Gathering up his book, he began to rewrap it. “I don’t remember saying that.”
“As we were coming in.”
Kaminski fooled with his package; he laid it back on the floor, against the table-leg. “One of these days you may be brought into it. But not yet.”
“Can you give me any information?”
“No, not really. It’s been going on awhile; it’s important. Obviously, it’s here in this area. Obviously, it involves a number of individuals.”
“Does Jones know?”
Kaminski shuddered. “God forbid. Sure, maybe. Doesn’t he know everything? Anyhow, he can’t do anything about it… he has no legal power.”
“Then this is under Fedgov.”
“Oh, yes,” Kaminski agreed bleakly. “Fedgov is still in business. Trying out a few last tricks before it goes down to ruin.”
“You don’t sound like you think we can beat this thing.”
“Do I sound like that? All we’re up against is a prophet… we ought to be able to handle that. There’ve been prophets before; the New Testament is full of them.”
“What do you mean by that? There’s John the Baptist; you mean him?”
“I mean Him Who John foretold.”
“You’re raving.”
“No, I’m repeating. I hear that kind of stuff. The Second Coming… after all, He was supposed to show up again, sometime. And the world certainly needs him, now.”
“But that puts the drifters in the position of—“ Cussick grimaced. “What’s the term?”
“Hordes from Hell.” Blowing clouds of gray cigarette smoke, Kaminski continued: “Satan’s Legions. The Evil Ones.”
“Then we haven’t gone back a hundred years. We’ve gone back a thousand.”
“Maybe this won’t be so bad. The drifters aren’t people; they’re mindless blobs. Let’s assume the worst: let’s assume Jones gets a war whipped up. We finish the drifters here, and then clean the planets one by one. After that—“ Kaminski gestured. “To the stars. With bulging battleships. Hunting down the bastards, exterminating the race. Well? What then? The enemy’s gone; a race of gigantic amoebae has perished. Is that so bad? I’m only trying to see the possibilities in this. We’ll be out beyond the system. And right now, without the spur, the hatred, the sense of fighting an enemy, we just sit around.”
“You’re saying what Jones says,” Cussick reflected.
“You bet I am.”
“Want me to show you your error? The danger isn’t in the war; it’s in the attitude that makes the war possible. To fight, we have to believe we’re Right and they’re Wrong. White versus black—good versus evil. The drifters have nothing to do with it; they’re only a means.”
“I’d disagree with you on one point,” Kaminski said intently. “You’re convinced, are you, that in the war itself there’s no danger?”
“Sure,” Cussick said. But he was suddenly uncertain. “What can primitive, one-celled protoplasm do to us?”
“I don’t know. But we’ve never fought a war with non-terrestrials. I wouldn’t want to take the chance. Remember, we still don’t know what they are. We may be surprised one of these days. Surprised or even worse. We may find out.”
Threading their way among the tightly-packed tables, Tyler and Nina returned to their seats. Pale and shaken, but fully in command of herself, Nina sat clasping her hands together, her attention on the raised platform. “Are they gone?” she asked faintly.
“We were wondering,” Tyler said, “how those hermaphrodites decide. That is, while Nina and I were in there, one of them might come in, too, and we wouldn’t know whether to resent it.” Daintily, she sipped at her drink. “A lot of unusual-looking women came and went, but neither one of the hermaphrodites.
“There’s one of them over there,” Nina said shakily. “Over by the tune-maker.”
Leaning against the square metal machine stood one of the dancers, the one that had originated as a young man. It was still a woman, as it had ended its act. Slender, with close-cut sandy hair, wearing a skirt and blouse and sandals, it was a perfect androgyne. Its smooth, neutral face was empty of expression; it looked a trifle tired, nothing more.
“Ask her to come over,” Nina said, touching her husband’s arm.
“There’s no room,” Cussick said flatly; he didn’t want to have anything to do with it. “And don’t you go over.” He saw her sink back. “You stay here.”
Nina flashed him a swift, animal-like glance and then subsided. “You’re still feeling that way, are you?”
“What way?”
“Let it go.” Nina’s hands moved restlessly on the surface of the table. “Could we have something to drink? I’d like cognac.”
When their fresh drinks arrived, Nina lifted her glass in a toast. “Here’s to,” she announced. The other glasses came up; there was a faint clink as they touched. “To a better world.”
“God,” Kaminski said wearily, “I hate talk like that.”
Faintly amused, Nina asked: “Why?”
“Because it doesn’t mean anything.” Slumped over, Kaminski struggled with his whiskey sour. “Who isn’t for a better world?”
“Is it true,” Tyler said, after a time, “that they’ve sent out scouts to Proxima Centaurus?”
Kaminski nodded. “They have.”
“Any luck?”
“The data hasn’t been sifted.”
“In other words,” Tyler said, “nothing of value.”
Kaminski shrugged. “Who knows?”
“Jones,” Nina murmured.
“Then ask him. Or wait for the official release. Don’t bother me about it.”
“What’s this business with Pearson?” Cussick asked, to change the subject. “I’ve heard rumors that he’s working night and day, lining up men, organizing projects.”
“Pearson is determined to stop Jones,” Kaminski answered remotely. “He’s sure it can be done.”
“But if we get as fanatic as they are—“
“Pearson is worse. He eats, sleeps, thinks, lives Jones. He can’t rest. Every time I go into his wing there’s a battalion of weapons-cops hanging around: guns and tanks and projectiles.”
“You think it’ll do any good?”
“Darling,” Nina said, measuring her words, “don’t you see anything positive in it?”
“Like what?”
“I mean, here we have a man with this wonderful talent… he can do something we’ve never done. We don’t have to guess any more. We know. We can be sure where we’re going.”
“I like to guess,” Cussick said flatly.
“Do you? Maybe that’s where the fault lies… maybe you don’t realize that most people want certainty. You’ve rejected Jones. Why? Because your system, your government, is built around not-knowing, around guesswork. It assumes nobody can know.” She raised her cold blue eyes. “But now we can know. So in a way, you’re outmoded.”
“Well,” Tyler said, amused, “then I’m out of a job.”
“What did you do before you came to Security?” Cussick asked her.
“I didn’t do anything: this is my first job. I’m only seventeen. I feel a little out of place with you people… I really don’t have any experience.”