Then he answered himself: the odds were even worse there. Quellen had had luck. Maybe a little ability too, Pomrath conceded grudgingly. If I had gone into government instead of becoming a medic, Id probably be a Class Fourteen clerk today, with regular work but no other advantages that I dont have at the present. The universe is not unfair. But it can be terribly consistent sometimes.
Pomrath was at the head of the line, now.
He was confronted by a blank aluminum plate, some two feet square, in the center of whose shiny surface was mounted a circular scanning shield made of pebbled glass. The shield glowed green and Pomrath clasped his hand over it in the old, familiar ritual.
It was not necessary to talk to the job machine. The job machine knew why Pomrath had come, and who he was, and what fate was in store for him. Nevertheless, Pomrath said in his deep, husky voice, How about a little work, maybe? and punched the activating stud.
He got his answer speedily.
Something in the wall behind the shiny aluminum plate made a whirring, chittering sound. Probably strictly for effect, Pomrath thought. To make the prolets believe that that machine is really doing something. A little slot opened in the plate and a minislip came rolling out. Pomrath ripped it off and studied it without much interest.
It bore his name, his job classification rating, and the rest of the identifying gibberish that had accreted to him in his journey through the world. Below that in neat block letters was the verdict:
EMPLOYMENT PROGNOSIS CURRENTLY UNFAVORABLE. WE WILL INFORM YOU AS OPPORTUNITIES FOR GAINFUL EMPLOY DEVELOP. WE URGE PATIENCE AND UNDERSTANDING. TEMPORARY PRESSURES PREVENT THE ATTAINMENT OF THE HIGH GOVERNMENTS FULL EMPLOYMENT QUOTA.
Too bad, Pomrath murmured. My sympathy to the High Government.
He placed the minislip in the disposal slot and turned away, shouldering a path through the swarm of emotionless men waiting to get their share of the bad news. So much for the visit to the job machine.
What time is it? he asked.
Half past sixteen, said his earwatch.
I think Ill drop in at my friendly sniffer palace. Do you think thats a good idea?
The earwatch wasnt programmed for such responses. For twice the money, you could get one that would really talk to you, would tell you things other than the time.
Pomrath did not think he rated such a luxury in these troubled times. He was also not so hungry for companionship that he yearned for the conversation of an earwatch. Still, he knew, there were those who took consolation from such things.
He stepped outside, into the pale sunlight of the spring afternoon.
The sniffer palace he particularly favored was four blocks away. There were plenty of them, dozens within a ten-block radius of the job-machine building, but Pomrath always went to the same one. Why not? They dispensed the same poisons at each one, so the only commodity that distinguished one from the next was personal service. Even an unemployed Class Fourteen likes to know that hes a valued regular client of something, if only a sniffer palace.
Pomrath walked quickly. The streets were crowded; pedestrianism was in fashion again lately. The short, heavyset Pomrath had little patience for the obstacles in his way. In fifteen minutes he was at the sniffer palace. It was on the fortieth underlevel of a commercial tank building; by law, all such places of illusion-peddling had to be underground, so that impressionable children at street level would not be prematurely corrupted. Pomrath entered the tank and took the express drop-shaft. With great dignity he descended five hundred feet. The tank had eighty levels, terminating in an undertract that linked it to several adjoining buildings, but Pomrath had never been down that deep to see. He left such subterranean adventures to the members of the High Government, and had no wish to come face to face with Danton somewhere in the depths of the earth.
The sniffer palace had gaudy, somewhat defective argon lights out front. Most such establishments were all mechanical, but this one had human attendants. That was why Pomrath liked it. He walked in, and there was good old Jerry just within the door, scanning him out of authentic, bloodshot human eyes.
Norm. Good to see.
Im not so sure about that. Business?
Lousy. Have a mask.
Glad to, Pomrath said. The wife? You got her pregnant yet?
The plump man behind the counter smiled. Would I do a crazy thing like that? In Class Fourteen, do I need a house full of kids? I took the Sterility Pledge, Norm. You forget that?
I guess I did, Pomrath said. Well, okay. There are times I wish Id done the same. Give me the mask.
What are you sniffing?
Butyl mercaptan, he said at random.
Come off it. You know we dont
Pyruvic acid, then. With a jolt of lactate dehydrogenase 5 as a spike.
Pomrath drew laughter, but it was mechanical, the laughter of an entrepreneur humoring a valued if slightly embittered customer. Here, Norm. Stop contaminating my brain and take this. And sweet dreams. You got couch nine, and you owe me a piece and a half.
Taking the mask, Pomrath dropped a few coins into the fleshy palm and retreated to a vacant couch. He kicked his shoes off. He stretched out. He clasped the mask to his face and inhaled. A harmless pastime, a mild hallucinatory gas, a quick illusion to enliven the day. As he went under, Pomrath felt electrodes sliding into place against his skull. To serve as wardens for his alpha rhythms, was the official explanation; if his illusion got too violent, he could be awakened by the management before he did some harm to himself.
Pomrath had heard that the electrodes served another, more sinister purpose: to record the hallucinations, to tape them for the benefit of Class Two millionaires who liked the vicarious kick of sitting inside a prolets mind for a while. Pomrath had asked Jerry about that, but Jerry denied it. As well he might do. It hardly mattered, Pomrath thought, if the sniffer palace chose to peddle second-hand hallucinations. They were free to loot his alphas, if they cared to. So long as he got some decent entertainment for his piece and a half, his proprietary interests ended there.
He went under.
Abruptly he was Class Two, the occupant of a villa on an artificial island in the Mediterranean. Wearing nothing but a strip of green cloth about his waist, he lay restfully on a fat pneumochair at the edge of the sea. A girl paddled back and forth in the crystal water, her tanned skin gleaming when she broke the surface. She smiled at him. Pomrath acknowledged her with a negligent wave of his hand. She looked quite lovely in the water, he told himself.
He was viceroy for interpersonal relations in Moslem East, a nice soft Class Two sinecure that involved nothing more than an occasional visit to Mecca and a few conferences each winter in Cairo. He had a pleasant home near Fargo, North Dakota, and a decent apartment in the New York zone of Appalachia, and of course this island in the Mediterranean. He firmly expected to reach Class One in the next personnel kickover of the High Government. Danton consulted with him frequently. Kloofman had invited him to dinner several times down on Level One Hundred. They had discussed wines. Kloofman was something of a connoisseur; he and Pomrath had spent a splendid evening analyzing the virtues of a Chambertin that the synthesizers had produced back in 74. That was a good year, 74. Especially for the bigger Burgundies.
Helaine crawled up out of the water and stood incandescently bare before him, her tanned, full-blown body shimmering in the warm sunlight.
Darling, why didnt you come swimming? she asked.
I was thinking. Very delicate plans.
You know that that gives you a headache! Isnt there a government to do the thinking for you?
Underlings like your brother Joe? Dont be foolish, love. Theres the government, and theres the High Government, and the two are quite distinct. I have my responsibilities. I have to sit here and think.
What are you thinking about?
Helping Kloofman assassinate Danton.
Really, love? But I thought you were in the Danton faction!
Pomrath smiled. I was. Kloofman, though, is a connoisseur of fine wines. He tempted me. Do you know what hes devised for Danton? Its magnificent. An autonomic laser programmed to put a beam through him at the exact moment when he
Dont tell me, Helaine said. I might give away the secret! She turned, presenting her back to him. Pomrath let his eyes rove up and down the succulent voluptuousness of her. She had never looked more delightful, he thought. He wondered if he should participate in Kloofmans assassination scheme. Danton might reward him well for information. It was worth further thought.
The butler came rolling out of the villa and planted itself on four stubby telescoping legs beside Pomraths lounge chair. Pomrath regarded the gray metal box with affection. What could be better than a homeostatic butler, programmed to its masters cycle of alcohol consumption?
A filtered rum, Pomrath said.
He accepted the drink, which was extended toward him by a spidery arm of crosshatched titanium fibers. He sipped it. A hundred yards off shore, the sea abruptly began to bubble and boil, as though something monstrous were churning upward from the depths. A vast corkscrew-shaped nose broke the surface. A metal kraken, paying a visit.
Pomrath gestured in the defense-motion, and instantly the guardian cells of the island threw up a picket fense of evenly spaced copper wire, each strand eight feet high and a sixteenth of an inch thick. The defense screen glowed between the strands.
The kraken lumbered toward the shore. It did not challenge the defensive screen. Rearing twenty feet out of the water, the bulky grayish-green object cast a long shadow across Pomrath and Helaine. It had large yellow eyes. A lid opened in the tubular skull, and a panel slid forward, out of which a human figure descended. So the kraken was merely a means of transportation, Pomrath observed. He recognized the figure who was coming ashore, and ordered the screen to drop.
It was Danton.
Cold eyes, sharply beaked nose, thin lips, swarthy skin betokening a more than usually mixed ancestry: Danton. As he stepped ashore, the Class One potentate nodded courteously to the nude Helaine and held both palms out to the apprehensive Pomrath. Pomrath tapped the butlers control panel; the metal box scuttled off to fetch a pneumochair for the newcomer. Danton settled into it. Pomrath procured a drink for him. Danton thanked him kindly. Helaine sprawled out on her belly to sunbathe.
Danton said quietly, About Kloofman, now. The time has come
Pomrath woke, the taste of old rags in his mouth.
It was always like that, he thought sadly. Just as the hallucination got really exciting, the effect wore off. Now and then, experimentally, he had paid for a double-strength jolt so he could enjoy the fantasy longer. Even then, though, the mid-hallucination interruption was the rule. TO BE CONTINUED, the mask always said, ringing down the curtain. But what did he expect? A neatly rounded episode, beginning, middle, climax, resolution? Since when did the universe work that way? He elbowed up from the couch and headed back to the front desk to drop off the mask.
You have a good one, Norm? Jerry asked.
Terrific, Pomrath said. I was demoted to Class Twenty and put in maximum confinement. Then they found work for me as assistant to a sanitation robot. I was the one who worked the squeegee. After that I started to get cancer of the inner ear, and
Hey, dont fool me. You got a dream like that here?
Sure, said Pomrath. Not bad for a piece and a half, was it? Some fun!
You got a hell of a sense of humor, Norm. I dont know, a guy like you, where you think up the jokes.
Pomrath smiled thinly. Its a gift from heaven. I dont question a thing like that. It comes to you out of the blue, like cancer of the inner ear. See you, Jerry.
He walked out and took the shaft to the top of the tank. It was late, close to dinnertime. He was in the mood for walking, but he knew Helaine would bend the walls if he dawdled like that on the way home, so he made for the nearest quickboat ramp. As he approached it, Pomrath saw a seedy figure coming toward him at a rapid clip. Pomrath tensed. Im ready for anything, he thought. Just let him try some funny stuff.
Read this, the man said, and jammed a crumpled minislip into Pomraths hand.
Pomrath unfolded the tough, yellowish synthetic fiber. The message was simple, printed in purple letters right in the center of the slip:
OUT OF WORK?
SEE LANOY
Thats interesting, Pomrath thought. I must have the look of the hard-core unemployed in my eyes, by now. Out of work? Sure!
But who the hell is this Lanoy?
5.
Martin Koll made a great show of rearranging the papers on his desk, to cover a confusion that he was scarcely eager to let Quellen see. The CrimeSec had just brought Koll a very disturbing proposition, as full of ricocheting implications as an image trapped between two mirrors. Koll, in turn, would have to refer it to the High Government for a judgment. He would gladly have impaled Quellen on a rusty spike for having caused such trouble for him. Agreed, it was a clever proposal. But cleverness was out of character for Quellen. The man was dogged, methodical, reasonably adept, but that was no reason for him to present his superior with a treacherous proposition like this.
Let me see if I grasp it, said Koll, who grasped it all too perfectly. Your search of the hopper records has produced an authentic individual named Mortensen who is listed as having departed for the past from next month. Its your suggestion to monitor him, track him to his contact point, and if necessary prevent him forcibly from completing his trip to the past by arresting those who have agreed to send him there.
Quellen nodded. Thats it.
You realize that it would be a direct interference with the past, in a deliberate way thats never been tried before, so far as I know?
I realize it, said Quellen. Thats why I came to you for authorization. Im caught between two imperatives: catch the time-travel slyster, and preserve the orderly structure of history. Obviously this Mortensen is in contact with the slyster, or will be, if May 4 is his actual departure date. So if we slap a tracer on him
Yes, Koll said drily. Youve said that already. I appreciate the difficulty.
Do you have an instruction for me?
Koll fidgeted with his papers again. He suspected that Quellen was doing this intentionally, putting his boss on the spot in a rare display of temperament. Koll was cognizant of the niceties of the situation. For ten years now he had made Quellen dance to his tune, compelling him to catch one hot assignment after another and then watching with some amusement as Quellen brought his limited capacities into play to deal with the problem. Koll admitted that there had been a element of sadism in his treatment of Quellen. It was fair enough; Koll was entitled to his personality faults, just like everyone else, and it seemed justifiable to him to release his aggressions through hostility toward the uncomplaining Quellen. All the same, it was a bother to have Quellen concoct a mess like this by way of revenge.
After a long moment of awkward silence Koll said, I cant give you an instruction just yet. Ill have to consult with Spanner, of course. And most likely well need to get an advisory view from the other quarters.
Meaning the High Government. Koll did not fail toobserve the small smile of triumph that passed rapidly over Quellens amiable features. Quellen was enjoying this, there could be no doubt of it.
Ill hold off taking critical action until further word, sir, the CrimeSec said.
Youd better, Koll replied.
Quellen went out. Koll dug his fingernails into his palms until his hands throbbed with pain. Then, with quick, disgusted taps of his fingers, he punched the autosec buttons until the machine disgorged a spool of his conversation with Quellen. That was for Spanner to study. And after that
Spanner was out, just now. Checking on some complaint in another department. Koll, perspiring badly, wished that Quellen had waited until a time when Spanner was in the office before presenting this Mortensen nonsense. But no doubt that was part of Quellens devilish plan, too. Koll bitterly resented being persecuted by the underling. He closed his eyes and saw Quellens face on the inside of the lids: long straight nose, pale blue eyes, cleft chin. An ordinary face, a forgettable face. Some might even say a handsome face. No one had ever called Martin Koll handsome. On the other hand, he was clever. Far cleverer than the hapless Quellen, or so Koll had always thought, until this afternoon.
An hour later, Spanner came back. As he settled into his desk like a beast returning from a gorging meal, Koll slid the spool over to him.
Play this. Then tell me what you think.
Cant you give me a précis?
Play it. Its simpler, Koll said.
Spanner played it, mercifully using his earphone so Koll would not have to listen to the conversation again. When the spool had run its course, Spanner looked up. He tugged at the flesh of his throat and said, Its a good chance to catch our man, isnt it?
Koll closed his eyes. Follow my train of thought. We tag Mortensen. He does not go back in time. He does not have the five children he is credited with fathering. Three of those five children, let us say, carry significant historical vectors. One of them grows up to be the father of the assassin of Secretary-General Tze. One of them becomes the grandfather of the unknown girl who carried the cholera to San Francisco. One of them is responsible for the line of descent that culminates in Flaming Bess. Now, since Mortensen never actually reaches his destination in the past, none of those three are born.
Look at it another way, said Spanner. Mortenson goes back and has five children. Two of them remain spinster girls. The third is killed falling through thin ice. The fourth becomes a common laborer and has some children who never amount to anything. The fifth
How do you know, asked Koll quietly, what the consequences of removing a single common laborer from the matrix of the past would be? How do you know what incalculable changes would be worked by removing even a spinster? Do you want to risk it, Spanner? Do you want the responsibility?
No.
Neither do I. Its been possible to intercept hoppers for four years, now, simply by going through the records and catching them before they take off. No ones done it. No ones even suggested it, so far as I know, until the fiendish idea was hatched in the mind of our friend Quellen.
I doubt that, said Spanner. As a matter of fact, Ive thought of it myself.
And kept the idea to yourself.
Well, yes. I hadnt had the time to work out the implications. But Im sure its occurred to others in the governmentwho have been working on the hopper problem. Perhaps its already been done, eh, Koll?
Very well, said Koll. Call Quellen and ask him to file a formal request for approval of his plan. Then you sign it.
No. Well both sign it.
I refuse to take the responsibility.
In that case, so do I, Spanner said.
They smiled at each other in non-amusement. The obvious-conclusion was all that was left.
In that case, said Koll, we must take it to Them for a decision.
I agree. You handle it.
Coward! Koll snorted.
Not really. Quellen brought the matter to you. You discussed it with me and got an advisory opinion that confirmed your own feelings. Now its back to you, and youre the one whos riding it. Ride it right up to Them. Spanner smiled cordially. You arent afraid of Them, are you?
Koll shifted uncomfortably in his seat. At his level of authority and responsibility, he had the right of access to the High Government. He had used it several times in the past, never with any degree of pleasure. Not direct access, of course; he had spoken face to face with a few Class Two people, but his only contacts with Class One had been on the screen. On one occasion Koll had spoken with Danton, and three times with Kloofman, but he had no way of being certain that the images on the screen were in fact those of authentic human beings. If something said it was Kloofman, and spoke in Kloofmans voice, and looked like the tridims of Kloofman that hung in public places, that still did not necessarily mean that there now was or ever had been such an actual person as Peter Kloofman.
Ill call and see what happens, said Koll.
He did not want to make the call from his own desk. The need for physical motion was suddenly great in him. Koll rose, too abruptly, and scuttled out, down the hall, into a darkened communicator booth. The screen brightened as he keyed in the console.
One hardly dared to pick up the phone and call Kloofman, naturally. One went through channels. Kolls route to the top was through David Giacomin, Class Two, the viceroy for internal criminal affairs. Giacomin existed. Koll had seen him in the flesh, had touched his hand on one instance, had even spent a numbing two hours at Giacomins private domain in East Africa, one of the most memorable and harrowing experiences in Kolls entire life.
He put through the call to Giacomin. In less than fifteen minutes the viceroy was on screen, smiling pleasantly at Koll with that easy benevolence that a Class Two man of secure ego could afford to display. Giacomin was a man of about fifty, Koll thought, with close-cropped iron-gray hair, lips that ran lopsidedly across his face, and a furrowed forehead. His left eye had been damaged irreparably some time in the past; in its place he wore a stubby fiber-receptor whose glass rods were plugged directly into his brain.
What is it, Koll? he asked amiably.
Sir, one of my subordinates has proposed an unusual method of obtaining information about the hopper phenomenon. Theres some controversy about whether we should proceed along the suggested path of action.
Why dont you tell me all about it? Giacomin said, his voice as warm and comforting as that of a frood begging to know about your most severe neurosis.
An hour later, toward the end of his working day, Quellen learned from Koll that nothing had been settled concerning Mortensen. Koll had talked to Spanner, and then he had talked to Giacomin, and now Giacomin was talking to Kloofman, and no doubt one of Them would be handing down The Word on the Mortensen project in a few days. Meanwhile, Quellen was to sit tight and take no provacative action. There was still plenty of time between now and Mortensens documented May 4 departure date.
Quellen did not feel any sense of delight at the trouble he was causing. Tagging Mortensen was a clever idea, yes; but it was dangerous sometimes to be too clever. Quellen knew that he had made Koll uncomfortable. That never paid. For all he could tell; Koll had made Giacomin uncomfortable too, and now Giacomin was troubling Kloofman, which meant that Quellens clever proposal was stirring eddies of annoyance all the way to the very top of the global power structure. When Quellen had been younger, and seething with ambitions to rise to Class Seven eminence, he would have liked nothing better than to win such attention to himself. Now, though, he was Class Seven, so he had attained the private apartment that was his dream, and further promotions would gain him little. Besides, his highly illegal nest in Africa weighed on his conscience. The last thing he wanted was to have a member of the High Government say, This man Quellen is very cleverfind out all you can about him. Quellen wished to remain inconspicuous, these days.
Still, he could not have let himself suppress the Mortensen idea. He had official responsibilities to fulfill, and the extent of his private deviation from the residence laws made him all the more conscientious about doing his public duties.
Before going home for the day, Quellen sent for Stanley Brogg.
The beefy assistant said at once, Weve got a wide net out for the slyster, CrimeSec. Its only a matter of days or even hours before we know his identity.
Good, said Quellen. Ive got another line of approach for you to begin on. But this has to be handled with care, because it hasnt been officially approved yet. Theres a man named Donald Mortensen planning to take his time-hop on May 4. Check him in the records you gave me; thats where I found out about him. I want tracers put on him. Check his activities and contacts. But its got to be done with extreme delicacy. I cant stress that too highly, Brogg.
All right. Mortensen.
Delicately.If this man finds out were tracing him, it could lead to a gigantic mess for all of us. Demotions or even worse. So get it straight: work around him, but dont even graze him. Otherwise itll go hard for you.
Brogg smiled slyly. You mean youll drop me a couple of classes if I bungle?
Quite likely.
I dont think youd do that, CrimeSec. Not tome.
Quellen met the fat mans eyes steadily. Brogg was becoming offensive lately, taking too keen a relish in the power he held over Quellen. His accidental discovery of Quellens African villa was the great torment of the CrimeSecs life.
Get out of here, Quellen said. And remember to be careful about Mortensen. Its very possible that this line of investigation will be quashed by the High Government, and if it is well all be frying if They find out weve alerted Mortensen.
I understand, said Brogg. He left.
Quellen wondered if he should have done that. What if word came down via Giacomin that Mortensen was to be left alone? Well, Brogg was competent enoughtoo competent, sometimes. And there was really not much time to handle the Mortensen situation if approval did come through. Quellen had to initiate the project in advance. On a speculative basis, so to speak.
He had done all he could for now. Fleetingly he considered the idea of getting Brogg to handle the whole filthy case while he went back to Africa, but he decided that that would be inviting disaster. He shut up his office and went outside to catch the nearest quickboat back to his little Class Seven apartment. In the next few weeks, he knew, he might be able to slip off to Africa for an hour or two at a time, but no more than that. He was mired in Appalachia until the hopper crisis was over.
Returning to his apartment, Quellen discovered that he had neglected to keep his foodstocks in good supply. Since his stay in Appalachia threatened to be long or possibly permanent, he decided to replenish his stores. Sometimes Quellen ordered by phone, but not today. He fastened the Privacy radion to his door again and went down the twisting flyramp to the supply shop, intending to stock up for a long siege.
As he made his way down, he noticed a sallow-looking man in a loose-fitting purple tunic heading in the opposite direction up the ramp. Quellen did not recognize him, but that was unsurprising; in the crowded turmoil of Appalachia, one never got to know very many people, just a handful of neighbors and relatives, and a few service employees like the keeper of the local supply shop.
The sallow-looking man stared curiously at Quellen. He seemed to be saying something with his eyes. Quellen felt profoundly uncomfortable about the contact. In his departmental work, he had learned a good deal about the various classes of molesters one could encounter on the streets. The ordinary sexual kind, of course; but also the ones who sidled up to you and punctured your veins to inject the addictive dose of some infernal drug like helidone, or the sinster sorts given to jamming carcinogens against your skin in a crowd, or perhaps the secret agents who subtly stuck a molecular probe into your flesh that would transmit every word of your conversation to a distant pickup point. Such things happened all the time.