But the followers of Jones had not given up; they had a dream, a vision. They were sure the Second Earth existed. Somehow, somebody had contrived to keep it from them: there was a conspiracy going on. It was Fedgov on Earth; Relativism was stifling them. Beyond Earth, it was the drifters. Once Fedgov was gone, once the drifters had been destroyed… the old story. Green pastures, beyond the very next hill.
Yet, it was not disgust that Cussick felt for the dreaming, racing figures. It was admiration. They were idealists. He, on the other hand, was only a realist. And he was ashamed.
On every street corner loomed a brightly-lit table with projecting sign. At each table an organization worker sat with a petition, collecting names from the lines of waiting people.
UNIVERSAL REFERENDUM, DEMAND
FEDGOV STEP ASIDE AND APPOINT
JONES SUPREME COMMANDER TO DEAL
WITH THE PRESENT CRISIS
That was the chilling sight: the lines of tired people, worn out from a long hard day of work, willing to stand patiently in line. Not the enthusiastic faces of the dedicated followers, but these drab, ordinary citizens desiring to abolish their legal government, wishing to end a government of law and to create in its place an authority of absolute will: the unqualified whim of an individual person.
As he climbed the steps to his apartment, Cussick made out a faint high-pitched squeal. His mind, leaden and sunk in despondency, failed to react; it wasn’t until he had the front door unlocked and was turning on the light that he identified the alarm signal of the vidphone.
When he snapped the set on, a visual tape-image appeared with a brief recorded message. Director Pearson’s face, stern and harsh, rose up and confronted him “I want you back at the office,” Pearson stated. “Get over here immediately; this cancels everything else.” The image clicked, then resumed. Once more Pearson’s withered mouth opened and words came out. “I want you back at the office. Get over here immediately; this cancels everything else.” It was beginning a third time when Cussick cut it savagely off and allowed the set to die.
At first he was blindly annoyed. He was tired; he wanted to eat dinner and go to bed. And there was the possibility, discussed in general, abstract terms, of taking Tyler out to a show. For an instant he considered ignoring the message; Pearson had no way to check up—he might not get home for hours.
Thinking about it, Cussick stepped into the empty, deserted kitchen and began fixing himself a sandwich. By the time he had finished he had made up his mind. Hurrying back out of the apartment, he strode down the stairs to the garage and rapidly back out his car. Eating his sandwich on the way, he drove at high speed back to the police buildings. Something Tyler had said, something that seemed unimportant at the time, all at once made terrifying sense.
Pearson admitted him immediately. “Here’s the situation,” he explained. “Your pal Kaminski, at three-thirty this afternoon, packed up his reports, stuffed as much classified material into his briefcase as he could, and skipped.”
Paralyzed, Cussick could say nothing. Foolishly, he stood wiping sandwich crumbs from his mouth.
“We weren’t surprised,” Pearson continued, reading from a memo, standing with his feet apart behind his desk, a grim, upright figure of a man. “We caught him a hundred miles up and forced his ship down.”
“Where was he going?” Cussick managed. But he already knew.
“He had a little deal cooked up with the Jones people. Something he’s been fretting about for months. In return for his data they were going to provide him with sanctuary. They had some sort of retreat fixed up; Kaminski was going to hide away and sit out the war or whatever’s coming. He washed his hands of it; he was through. And, of course, he couldn’t resign. Nobody resigns from the police, these days. Not in this emergency.”
“What did you do with him? Where is he?”
“He’s in the Saskatchewan labor camp. For the rest of his life. He’s already been taken there; I had them take him right off. I’m making this public; I want this to be an example.”
“But,” Cussick said hoarsely, “he’s sick. He’s old and ill. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s gone all to pieces—he ought to be in a hospital, not a forced labor camp!”
“He ought to be shot. Only we don’t shoot people any more. All we can do is put them to work for the rest of their lives. Your old instructor will be sorting bolts until he’s dead.” Pearson came out from behind his desk. “I’m telling you this because you’re partly responsible. We’ve been keeping an eye on all of you; Kaminski and that ex-Communist girl, Tyler Fleming, and your wife. We know your wife is a Jones agent; we know she’s been working with them, living at one of their meeting units, getting indoctrination—giving them money.” Folding up his memo, he added, “Kaminski knew about it. He held up the information—tried to suppress it.”
“He didn’t want me to know,” Cussick said.
“He didn’t want us to know, you mean. We realized the chances were high that he’d take off, after your wife left you and crossed over completely. We expected him to follow, sooner or later. As far as you’re concerned—“ Pearson shrugged. “I don’t think there’s a chance in the world you’d do what he’d done. That girl, too; she’s still with us. But it’s a nasty business.” Suddenly the harshness left his voice. “It’s a terrible thing… that wonderful old man. I thought you ought to know.”
“Thanks,” Cussick said numbly.
“Probably you’re right. Certainly he ought to be in a hospital. But we can’t do that; we’re fighting for our lives. A lot of us want to get out… maybe all of us.”
“Maybe so,” Cussick agreed, barely hearing him.
“The Jones people are getting in everywhere. The whole structure is crumbling; every class, every group. Here in Security, men are slipping off, vanishing… like Kaminski. I had to put him in a work camp. If I could, I’d kill him in cold blood.”
“But you wouldn’t want to.”
“No,” Pearson agreed. “I wouldn’t want to. But I’d do it.” For a moment he was silent. Then he went on: “Kaminski was handling the security program for a top-secret Fedgov project. Something under the Department of Health… I don’t know what it is; nobody does, here. The Council knows, of course. It’s the work of a biochemist named Rafferty. You’ve probably heard of him; he disappeared about thirty years ago.”
“I remember,” Cussick said vaguely; he couldn’t bring his mind into focus. “Is Max all right? He’s not injured, is he?”
“He’s all right.” Impatiently, Pearson went on: “You’ll have to take over the security aspect of this project. I suppose that son of a bitch Jones knows all about it; we stopped Kaminski from taking his papers, but Jones may have got an oral report.” Furiously, he snapped: “Anyhow, Jones can’t do anything. He’s not in power—yet. And until he is, we’re protecting this project.”
Stupidly, Cussick asked: “What do you want me to do?”
“Obviously, I’m sending you over to Rafferty so you can find out what it’s all about.” From his desk Pearson snatched a packet of identification papers and held them out. “Rafferty had already been notified about Kaminski. He’s expecting you; everything has been set up. Get right over there and report to me as soon as you think you’ve got it untangled. Not the project—I don’t want to hear about that. All I’m interested in is the security end. Understand?”
In a daze, Cussick made his way out of the office. A high-velocity police cruiser was idling at the curb; three weapons-cops stood around in their shiny helmets, gripping regulation machine guns. They came instantly to attention as he stumbled up to them, shocked and confused, hardly able to grasp what was happening.
“I don’t know anything about this,” he informed them. “I don’t know where we’re going.”
“We already have out orders, sir,” one of the weapons-cops told him. “We’ve got the route plotted.”
A moment later he was rising up above the dark city, with no idea of his destination. To his right, one of the cops had fallen into a contented half-sleep, his gun resting in his lap. The ship was on robot pilot; the other two cops were beginning to play cards. Cussick settled back and prepared for a long trip.
The trip, however, ended abruptly. All at once the ship nosed down; one of the cops laid aside his hand of cards and resumed manual control. Below, in the darkness, stretched the winking lights of a great city. It wasn’t until the ship had actually come to rest on a roof-top field that Cussick recognized it, San Francisco. Then this was what Kaminski had meant, that night. Near them… the project he had mumbled about, brooded over, but not discussed. Now he would learn what it was all about—but he wasn’t thinking about the Fedgov project. He was thinking about Kaminski in the forced labor camp.