“They’re all useless,” Cussick agreed testily. “It’s a waste of the taxpayers’ money to explore them.” He folded up his orders and stuffed them away in his coat pocket.
“What’s he like?” Nina asked. “Is he the one you told me about, the one who used to be a fortuneteller?”
“That’s him.”
“And they finally got around to arresting him?”
“It’s not an easy thing.”
“I thought it was all rigged; I thought you could get anybody.”
“We can—but we don’t want to. We only want people who seem to be dangerous. You think I’d arrest your brother’s cousin because she goes around saying Beethoven quartets are the only music worth listening to?”
“You know,” Nina said idly, “I don’t remember a single thing I read in Hoff’s book. We had it in school, of course. Required text in sociology.” Blithely, she finished: “I just can’t seem to get interested in Relativism… and now here I am married to a—“ She glanced around. “I guess I shouldn’t say. I still can’t get used to this clandestine sneaking around.”
“It’s in a good cause,” Cussick said.
Nina sighed. “I just wish you were in something else. In the shoelace business. Or even dirty postcards. Anything you could be proud of.”
“I’m proud of this.”
“Oh? Are you really?”
“I’m the town dog catcher,” Cussick said soberly. “Nobody likes the dog catcher. Little kids pray a thunderbolt will strike the dog catcher. I’m the dentist. I’m the tax collector. I’m all the stern men who show up with folders of white paper, summoning people to face judgment. I didn’t know that, seven months ago. I know it now.”
“But you’re still in the secret-service.”
“Yes,” Cussick said. “I still am. And I probably will be the rest of my life.”
Nina hesitated. “Why?”
“Because Security is the lesser of two evils. I say evils. Of course, you and I know- there’s no such thing as evil. A glass of beer is evil at six in the morning. A dish of mush looks like hell around eight o’clock at night. To me, the spectacle of demagogues sending millions of people to their deaths, wrecking the world with holy wars and bloodshed, tearing down whole nations to put over some religious or political ‘truth’ is—“ He shrugged. “Obscene. Filthy. Communism, Fascism, Zionism—they’re the opinions of absolutist individuals forced on whole continents. And it has nothing to do with the sincerity of the leader. Or the followers. The fact that they believe it makes it even more obscene. The fact that they could kill each other and die voluntarily over meaningless verbalisms…” He broke off. “You see the reconstruction crews; you know we’ll be lucky if we ever rebuild.”
“But secret police… it seems so sort of ruthless and—well, and cynical.”
He nodded. “I suppose Relativism is cynical. It surely isn’t idealistic. It’s the result of being killed and injured and made poor and working hard for empty words. It’s the outgrowth of generations of shouting slogans, marching with spades and guns, singing patriotic hymns, chanting, and saluting flags.”
“But you put them into prison. These people who don’t agree with you—you won’t let them disagree with you , . . like this Minister Jones.”
“Jones can disagree with us. Jones can believe anything he wants; he can believe the Earth is flat, that God is an onion, that babies are born in cellophane bags. He can have any opinion he wants; but once he starts peddling it as Absolute Truth -“
“Then you put him in prison,” Nina said tightly.
“No,” Cussick corrected. “Then we put out our hand; we say simply: Put up or shut up. Prove what you’re saying. If you want to say the Jews are the root of all evil—prove it. You can say it—if you can back it up. Otherwise, into the work camp.”
“It’s—“ She smiled a little. “It’s a tough business.”
“You bet it is.”
“If you see me sipping cyanide through a straw,” Nina said, “you can’t tell me not to. I’m free to poison myself.”
“I can tell you it’s cyanide in the bottle, not orange juice.”
“But if I know?”
“Good God,” Cussick said, “then it’s your business. You can bathe in it; you can freeze it and wear it. You’re an adult.”
“You—“ Her lips quivered. “You don’t care what happens to me. You don’t care if I take poison, or anything.”
Cussick glanced at his wrist watch; the transport was already over the North American land mass. The trip was virtually over. “I care. That’s why I’m involved in this; I care about you and the rest of suffering humanity.” Broodingly, he added: “Not that it matters. We flubbed Jones. This may be the one time our bluff gets called.”
“Why?”
“Right now we’re saying to Jones: Put up, let’s see the proof. And I’m afraid the bastard’s giving it to us.”
In many ways Jones had changed. Standing silently in the doorway, Cussick ignored the group of uniformed police and studied the man sitting in the chair in the center of the room.
Outside the building a unit of police tanks rumbled along, followed by a regiment of weapons-troops. It was as if the presence of Jones had set off an uneasy chain of muscle-flexings. But the man himself paid no attention; he sat smoking, glaring down, his body taut. He sat very much as Cussick had seen him on the platform.
But he was older. The seven months had changed him, too. The ragged fringe of beard had grown; the man’s face was ominous with coarse black hair, giving him an ascetic, almost spiritual quality. His eyes shone feverishly. Again and again he clasped his hands together, licked his dry lips, darted nervous, wary glances around the room. It occurred to Cussick that if he were really a precog, if he could really see a year ahead, he had anticipated this at the time Cussick had talked to him.
Abruptly Jones noticed him and glanced up. Their eyes met. Cussick began to perspire; he realized, chillingly, that as Jones had talked to him that day, as he had accepted his twenty dollars, he had seen this. Known that Cussick would turn in a report on him.
That meant, obviously, that Jones was here voluntarily.
From a side door Director Pearson appeared, a sheaf of papers clutched in his hand. He stalked over to Cussick, boots and helmet shining, impressive in his full uniform. “We’re all bobbled up,” he said, without preamble. “We sat on our behinds waiting to find out if the rest of his gabble worked out. It did. It did. So now we’re stuck.”
“I could have told you that.” Cussick reflected. “In seven months of surveillance, didn’t you get a whole boatful of prophecies?”
“We did. But the brief was drawn up on this; the Saunders one is the basis of our case. You heard the official release of data on the drifters, of course.”
“It filtered in while I was on my honeymoon. I didn’t particularly care, not at the time.”
Lighting his pipe, Pearson said: “We ought to buy up this fellow. But he says he’s not for sale.”
“This really is it, isn’t it? He’s not a fake.”
“No, he’s not a fake. And the whole damn system is based on the theory that he has to be a fake. Hoff never took this into account; this spellbinder is telling the truth.” Taking hold of Cussick’s arm he led him through the circle of police. “Come on over and say hello. Maybe he’ll remember you.”
Jones watched rigidly, as the two men made their way toward him. He recognized Cussick; there was no ambiguity in his expression.
“Hello,” Cussick said. Jones got slowly to his feet and they faced each other. Presently Jones put out his hand, and they shook. “How have you been?”
“Fine,” Jones replied noncommittally.
“You knew about me, that day. You knew I was in Secpol.”
“No,” Jones disagreed. “As a matter of fact I didn’t.”
“But you knew you’d be here,” Cussick said, surprised. “You must have seen this room, this meeting.”
“I didn’t recognize you. You looked different, then. You don’t realize how much you’ve changed in the last seven months. All I knew was that somewhere along the line a contact was made with me.” He spoke dispassionately, but tensely. A muscle in his cheek twitched. “You’ve lost weight… but sitting around behind a desk hasn’t improved your posture.”
“What are you doing these days?” Cussick asked. “You’re not with the carnival?”
“I’m a minister of the Honorable Church of God,” Jones said, with a wry spasm.
“You look pretty seedy for a minister.”
Jones shrugged. “It doesn’t pay very well. Right now, not too many people are interested.” He added, “But they will be.”
“You know, of course,” Pearson broke in, “that this whole interview is being taped. Everything you say is going to be played back at the trial.”