CANTATA-141

4

The black-haired, extremely dark youth said shyly, 'We came to you, Mrs. Sands, because we read about you in the homeopape. It said you were very good and also you take people without too much money.' He added, 'We don't have any money at all right now, but maybe we can pay you later.'

Brusquely, Myra Sands said, 'Don't worry about that now.' She surveyed the boy and girl. 'Let's see. Your names are Art and Rachael Chaffy. Sit down, both of you, and let's talk, all right ?' She smiled at them, her professional smile of greeting and warmth; it was reserved for her clients, given to no one else, not even to her husband - or, as she thought of Lurton now, her former husband.

In a soft voice the girl, Rachael, said 'We tried to get them to let us become bibs but they said we should consult an advisor first.' She explained, 'I'm - well, you see, somehow I got to be preg. I'm sorry.' She ducked her head fearfully, with shame, her cheeks flushing deep scarlet. 'It's too bad they don't just let you kill yourself, like they did a few years ago,' she murmured. 'Because that would solve it."

'That law,' Myra said firmly, 'was a bad idea. However imperfect deep-sleep is, it's certainly preferable to the old form of self-destruction undertaken on an individual basis. How far advanced is your pregnancy, dear ?'

'About a month and a half,' Rachael Chaffy said, lifting her head a trifle. She managed to meet

Myra's gaze; for a moment, at least.

'Then abort-processing presents no difficulty,' Myra said. 'It's routine. We can arrange for it by noon today and have it done by six tonight. At any one of several free government abort clinics here in the area. Just a moment.' Her secretary had opened the door to the office and was trying to catch her attention. 'What is it, Tina ?'

'An urgent phone call for you, Mrs. Sands.'

Myra clicked on her desk vidphone. On the screen Tito Cravelli's features formed in replica, puffy with agitation.

'Mrs. Sands,' Tito said, 'sorry to bother you at your office so early this morning. But a number of tracking devices we've been employing here have wound up their term of service and have come home. I thought you'd want to know. Cally Vale is nowhere on Earth. That's absolutely been determined; that's definite.' He was silent, then, waiting for her to say something.

'Then she emigrated,' Myra said, trying to picture the dainty and rather nauseatingly fragile Miss

Vale in the rugged environment of Mars or Ganymede.

'No,' Tito Cravelli said emphatically, shaking his head. 'We've checked on that, of course. Cally

Vale did not emigrate. It doesn't make sense, but there it is. No wonder we're making no headway; we're faced with an impossible situation.' He did not appear very happy about it. His features sagged glumly.

Myra said, 'She's not on Earth and she didn't emigrate. Then she must...' It was obvious to her; why hadn't they thought of it right away, when Cally originally vanished from sight ? 'She's entered a government warehouse. Cally's a bib.' It was the only possibility left.

'We're looking into that,' Tito said, but without enthusiasm. 'I admit it's possible but frankly I just don't buy it. Personally, I think they've thought up something new, something original; I'd stake my job on it, everything I have.' Tito's tone was insistent, now. No longer hesitant. 'But we'll check all the Dept. of SPW warehouses, all ninety-four of them. That'll take a couple of days at least. Meanwhile ?' He caught sight of the young couple, the Chaffys, waiting silently. 'Perhaps;

I'd better discuss it with you later; there's no urgency.'

Maybe what the homeopapes are hinting at actually did take place, Myra thought to herself.

Perhaps Lurton has actually killed her. So she can't be subpoenaed by Frank Fenner at the trial.

'Do you believe Cally Vale is dead ?' Myra said to Tito bluntly. She ignored the young couple seated opposite her; they did not at the moment matter; this was far too important.

'I'm in no position ...' Tito began. Myra cut him off; she broke the connection, and the screen faded. I'm in no position to say, she finished for him. But who is ? Lurton ? Maybe even he doesn't know where Cally is. She might have run out on him. Gone to the Golden Door Moments of Bliss satellite and joined the army of girls there, under an assumed name. With relish, Myra pondered that, picturing her former husband's mistress as one of Thisbe's creatures, sexless and mechanical and automatic. Which will it be, Cally ? One, two, three or four ? Only, the choice isn't yours. It's theirs. Every time. Myra laughed. It's where you ought to be, Cally, she thought.

For the rest of your life, for the next two hundred years.

'Please forgive the interruption,' Myra said to the young couple seated opposite her. 'And do go on.'

'Well,' the girl Rachael said awkwardly, 'Art and I felt that - we thought over the abortion and we just don't want to do it. I don't know why, Mrs. Sands. I know we should. But we can't.'

There was silence, then.

'I don't see what you came to me for,' Myra said. 'If you've made up your minds against it already. Obviously, from a practical standpoint you should go through with it; you're probably frightened... after all, you are very young. But I'm not trying to talk you into it. A decision of this sort has to be your own.'

In a low voice Art said, 'We're not scared, Mrs. Sands. That's not it. We - well, we'd like to have the baby. That's all.'

Myra Sands did not know what to say. She had never, in her practice, run into anything quite like this; it baffled her.

She could see already that this was going to be a bad day.

Between this and Tito's phone call - it was too much. And so early. It was not yet even nine a.m.

In the basement of Pethel Jiff-scuttler Sales & Service, the repairman Rick Erickson prepared, for the second day in a row, to enter the defective 'scuttler of Dr Lurton Sands, Jr. He still had not found what he was searching for.

However, he did not intend to give up. He felt, on an intuitive level, that he was very close. It would not be long now.

From behind him a voice said, 'What are you doing, Rick ?'

Startled, Erickson jumped, glanced around. At the door of the repair department stood his employer, Darius Pethel, heavy-set in the wrinkled dark-brown old-fashioned /i>jerry -type wool suit which he customarily wore.

'Listen,' Erickson said. 'This is Dr Sands' 'scuttler. You can laugh, but I think he's got his mistress in here, somewhere.'

'What ?' Pethel laughed.

'I mean it. I don't think she's dead, even though I talked to Sands long enough to know he could do it if he felt it was necessary - he's that kind of guy. Anyhow nobody's found her, even Mrs.

Sands. Naturally they can't find her, because Lurton's got his 'scuttler in here with us, out of sight. He knows it's here, but they don't. And he doesn't want it back, no matter what he says; he wants it stuck down here, right in this basement.'

Staring at him Pethel said, 'Great fud. Is this what you've been doing on my time ? Working out detective theories ?'

Erickson said, 'This is important! Even if it doesn't mean any money for you. Hell, maybe it does; if I'm lucky and find her, maybe you can sell her back to Mrs. Sands.'

After a pause Darius Pethel shrugged in a philosophical way. 'Okay. So look. If you do find her ?'

Beside Pethel the salesman of the firm, Stuart Hadley, appeared. He said breezily, 'What's up,

Dar ?' As always cheerful and interested.

'Rick's searching for Dr Sands' mistress.' Pethel said. He jerked his thumb at the 'scuttler.

'Is she pretty ?' Hadley asked. 'Well started ?' He looked hungry.

'You've seen her pics in the homeopapes,' Pethel said. 'She's cute. Otherwise why do you suppose the doctor risked his marriage, if she wasn't something exceptional ? Come on, Hadley; I need you upstairs on the floor. We can't all three be down here - someone'll walk away with the register.' He started up the stairs.

'And she's in there ?' Hadley said, looking puzzled as he bent to peer into the 'scuttler. 'I don't see her, Dar.'

Darius Pethel guffawed. 'Neither do I. Neither does Rick, but he's still searching - and on my time, goddam it! Listen, Rick; if you find her she's my mistress, because you're on my time, working for me.'

All three of them laughed at that.

'Okay,' Rick agreed, on his hands and knees, scraping the surface of the 'scuttler tube with the blade of a screwdriver. 'You can laugh and I admit it's funny. But I'm not stopping. Obviously, the rent isn't visible; if it was, Doc Sands wouldn't have dared leave it here. He may think I'm dumb, but not that dumb - he's got it concealed and real well.'

' "Rent,"'Pethel echoed. He frowned, startling back a few steps down the stairs and into the basement once more. 'You mean like Henry Ellis found, years ago ? That rupture in the tube-wall that led to ancient Israel ?'

'Israel is right,' Rick said briefly, as he scraped. His keen, thoroughly-trained eye saw all at once in the surface near at hand a slight irregularity, a distortion. Leaning forward, he reached out his hand...

His groping fingers passed through the wall of the tube and disappeared.

'Jesus,' Rick said. He raised his invisible fingers, felt nothing at first, and then touched the upper edge of the rent. 'I found it,' he said. He looked around, but Pethel had gone. 'Darius!' he yelled, but there was no answer. 'Damn him!' he said in fury to Hadley.

'You found what ?' Hadley asked, starting cautiously into the tube. 'You mean you found the

Vale woman ? Cally Vale ?'

Headfirst, Rick Erickson crept into the rent.

He sprawled, snatching for support; falling, he struck hard ground and cursed. Opening his eyes, he saw, above, a pale blue sky with a few meager clouds. And, around him, a meadow. Bees, or what looked something more or less like bees, buzzed in tall-stemmed white flowers as large as saucers. The air smelled of sweetness, as if the flowers had impregnated the atmosphere itself.

I'm there, he said to himself. I got through; this is where Doc Sands hid his mistress to keep her from testifying for Mrs. Sands at the trial or hearing or whatever it's called. He stood up, cautiously. Behind him he made out a hazy shimmer: the nexus with the tube of the Jiffi-scuttler back in the store's basement in Kansas City. I want to keep my bearings, he said to himself warily. If I get lost, I may not be able to get back again and that might be bad.

Where is this ? he asked himself. Must work that out - now.

Gravity like Earth's. Must be Earth, then, he decided. Long time ago ? Long time in the future ?

Think what this is worth; the hell with the man's mistress, the hell with him and his personal problems - that's nothing. He looked wildly around for some sign of habitation, for something animal-like, or human; something to tell him what epoch this was, past or future, Saber-tooth tiger, maybe. Or trilobite. No, too late for the trilobite already; look at those bees. This is the break Terran Development has been trying to uncover for thirty years now, he said to himself.

And the rat that found it used it for his own sneaky goings-on, as a place merely to hide his doxie. What a world! Erickson began slowly to walk, step by step...

Far off, a figure moved.

Shading his eyes against the glare of the sky, Rick-Erickson tried to make out what it was.

Primitive man ? Cro-Magnon or some such thing ? Big-domed inhabitant of the future, perhaps ?

He squinted - it was a woman; he could tell by her hair. She wore slacks and she was running toward him. Cally, he thought. Doc Sands' mistress, hurrying toward me. Must think I'm Sands.

In panic, he halted; what'll I do ? He wondered. Maybe I better go back, think this out. He started to turn in the direction he had come.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the girl's arm come up swiftly.

No, he thought. Don't.

He stumbled as he snatched at the hazy, small loop which connected the two environments, entrance to the 'scuttler tube.

The red glow of an aimed laser-beam passed over his head.

You missed me, he thought in terror. But - he clawed! for the entrance, found it, began to struggle back through. But next time. Next time!

'Stop,' he shouted at her without looking at heir. His voice echoed in the bee-zooming plain of flowers.

The second laser-beam caught him in the back.

He put his hand out, saw it pass through the haze and disappear beyond. It was safe, but he was not. She had killed him; it was too late, now, too late to get away from her. Why didn't she wait ? he asked himself. Find out who I was ? Must have been afraid.

Again the laser-beam nicked. It touched the back of his head and that was that. There was no returning for him, no reentry into the safety of the tube.

Rick Erickson was dead.

Standing on the far side, in the tube of Dr Sands' Jiffi-scuttler, Stuart Hadley waited nervously, then saw Rick Erickson's fingers jerk through the wall near the floor; the fingers writhed, and

Hadley stooped down and grabbed Erickson by the wrist. Trying to get back, he realized, and pulled Erickson by the arm with all his strength. It was a corpse that he drew into the tube beside him.

Horrified, Hadley rose unsteadily to his feet; he saw the two clean holes and knew that Erickson had been killed with a laser rifle, probably from a distance. Stumbling down the tube, Hadley reached the controls of the 'scuttler and cut the power off; the shimmer of the entrance hoop at once vanished, and he knew or hoped - that now they, whoever they were who had murdered

Rick Erickson, could not follow him through.

'Pethel!' he shouted. 'Come down here!' He ran to Erickson's work bench and the intercom. 'Mr.

Pethel,' he said, 'come back down here to the basement right away. Erickson's dead.'

The next he knew, Darius Pethel stood beside him, examining the body of the repairman. 'He must have found it,' Pethel muttered, ashen-faced and trembling. 'Well, he got paid for his nosiness; he sure got paid.'

'We better get the police,' Hadley said.

'Yes.' Pethel nodded vacantly. 'Of course. I see you turned it off. Good thing. We better leave it strictly alone. The poor guy, the poor goddam guy; look at what he got for being smart enough to figure it all out. Look, he's got something in his hand.' He bent down, opening Erickson's fingers.

The dead hand held a wad of grass.

'No org-trans operation can help him, either,' Pethel said. 'Because the beam caught him in the head. Got his brain. Too bad.' He glanced at Stuart Hadley. 'Anyhow the best org-trans surgeon is Sands and he isn't going to do anything to help Erickson. You can make book on that.'

'A place where there's grass,' Hadley murmured, touching the contents of the dead man's hand.

'Where can it be ? Not on Earth. Not now, anyway.'

'Must be the past,' Pethel said. 'So we've got time-travel. Isn't it great ?' His face twisted with grief. 'Terrific beginning, one good man dead. How many left to go ? Imagine a guy's reputation meaning that much to him, that he'd let this happen. Or maybe Sands doesn't know; maybe she was just given the laser gun to protect herself. In case his wife's private cops got to her. And anyhow, we don't know for sure if she did it; it could have been someone else entirely, not Cally

Vale at all. What do we know about it ? All we know is that Erickson is dead. And there was something basically wrong with the theory he was going on.'

'You can give Sands the benefit of the doubt, if you want,' Hadley said, 'but I'm not going to.' He stood up, then, taking a deep shuddering breath. 'Can we get the police, now ? You call them; I can't talk well enough to. You do it, Pethel, okay ?'

Unsteadily, Darius Pethel moved toward the phone on Erickson's work bench, his hand extended gropingly, as if his perception of touch had begun to disintegrate. He picked up the receiver, and then he turned to Stuart Hadley and said, 'Wait. This is a mistake. You know who we've got to call ? The factory. We have to tell Terran Development about this; it's what they're after. They come first.'

Hadley, staring at him, said, 'I - don't agree.'

This is more important than what you think or I think, more important than Sands and Cally

Vale, any of us.' Dar Pethel began to dial. 'Even if one of us is dead. That still doesn't matter.

You know what I'm thinking about ? Emigration. You saw the grass in Erickson's hand. You know what it means. It means the hell with that girl on the far side, or whoever it is over there who shot Erickson. It means the hell with any of us and all of us, our sentiments and opinions.'

He gestured. 'All our lives put together.'

Dimly, Stuart Hadley understood. Or thought he did. 'But she'll probably kill the next person who ...'

'Let TD worry about that,' Pethel said savagely. 'That's their problem. They've got company police, armed guards they use for patrol purposes; let them send them over, first.' His voice was low and harsh. 'Let them lose a few men, so what. The lives of millions of people are involved in this, now. You get that, Hadley ? Do you ?'

'Y-yes,' Hadley said, nodding.

'Anyhow,' Pethel said, more calmly, now, 'it's legitimately within the jurisdiction of TD because it look place within one of their 'scuttlers. Call it an accident; think of it that way. Unavoidable and awful. Between an entrance and an exit hoop. Naturally the company has to know.' He turned his back to Hadley, then, concentrating on the vidphone, calling Leon Turpin, the chief of

TD.

'I think,' Salisbury Heim said to his presidential candidate James Briskin, 'I have something cooking you won't like. I've been talking to George Walt...'

At once Jim Briskin said, 'No deal. Not with them. I know what they want and that's out, Sal.'

'If you don't do business with George Walt,' Heim said steadily, 'I'm going to have to resign as your campaign manager. I just can't take any more, not after that planet-wetting speech of yours.

Things are breaking too badly for us as it is, we can't take George Walt on in addition to everything else.'

'There's something even worse,' Jim Briskin said, after a pause. 'Which you haven't heard. A wire came from Bruno Mini. He was delighted with my speech and he's on his way here to - as he puts it - "join forces with me." '

Heim said, 'But you can still...'

'Mini's already spoken to homeopape reporters. So it's too late to head him off media-wise. Sorry.'

'You're going to lose.'

'Okay, I'll have to lose.'

'What gets me,' Heim said bitterly, 'what really gets me is that even if you did win the election you couldn't have it all your way; one man just can't alter things that much. The Golden Door

Movements of Bliss satellite is going to remain; the bibs are going to remain; so are Nonovulid and the abort-consultants you can chip away a little here and there but not...'

He ceased, because Dorothy Gill had come up to Jim Briskin. 'A phone call for you, Mr. Briskin.

The gentleman says it's urgent and he won't be wasting your time. You don't know him, he says, so he didn't give his name.' She added, 'He's a Col. If that helps you identify him.'

'It doesn't,' Jim said. 'But I'll talk to him anyhow.' Obviously, he was glad to break off the conversation with Sal; relief showed on his face. 'Bring the phone here, Dotty.'

'Yes, Mr. Briskin.' She disappeared and presently was back, carrying the extension vidphone.

'Thanks.' Jim Briskin pressed the hold button, releasing it, and the vidscreen glowed. A face formed, swarthy and handsome, a keen-eyed man, well-dressed and evidently agitated. Who is he ? Sal Heim asked himself. I know him. I've seen a pic of him somewhere.

Then he identified the man. It was the big-time N'York investigator who was working for Myra

Sands; it was a man named Tito Cravelli, and he was a tough individual indeed. What did he want with Jim ?

The image of Tito Cravelli said, 'Mr. Briskin, I'd like to have lunch with you. In private. I have something to discuss with you, just you and me; it's vitally important to you, I assure you.' He added, with a glance toward Sal Heim, 'So vital I don't want anybody else around.'

Maybe this is going to be an assassination attempt, Sal Heim thought. Someone, a fanatic from

CLEAN, sent by Verne Engel and his crowd of nuts. 'You better not go, Jim,' he said aloud.

'Probably not,' Jim said. 'But I am anyhow.' To the image on the vidscreen he said, 'What time and where ?'

Tito Cravelli said, There's a little restaurant in the N'York slum area, in the five hundred block of

Fifth Avenue; I always eat there when I'm in N'York - the food's prepared by hand. It's called

Scotty's Place. Will that be satisfactory ? Say at one p.m., N'York time.'

'All right,' Jim Briskin agreed. 'At Scotty's Place at one o'clock. I've been there.' He added tartly,

They're willing to serve Cols.'

'Everyone serves Cols,' Tito said, 'when I'm along.' He broke the connection; the screen faded and died.

'I don't like this,' Sal Heim said.

'We're ruined anyhow,' Jim reminded him. 'Didn't you say, just a minute ago ?' He smiled laconically. 'I think the time has arrived for me to clutch at straws, Sal. Any straw I can reach.

Even this.'

'What shall I tell George Walt ? They're waiting. I'm supposed to set up a visit by you to the satellite within twenty-four hours; that would be by six o'clock tonight.' Getting out his handkerchief, Sal Heim mopped his forehead. 'After that ...'

'After that,' Jim said, 'they begin systematically campaigning against me.'

Sal nodded.

'You can tell George Walt,' Jim said, 'that in my Chicago speech today I'm going to come out and advocate the shutting of the satellite. And if I'm elected ...'

'They know already,' Sal Heim said. 'There was a leak.'

'There's always a leak ...' Jim did not seem perturbed.

Reaching into his coat pocket, Sal brought out a sealed envelope. 'Here's my resignation.' He had been carrying it for some time.

Jim Briskin accepted the envelope; without opening it he put it in his coat-pouch. 'I hope you'll be watching my Chicago speech, Sal. It's going to be an important one.' He grinned sorrowfully at his ex-campaign manager; his pain at this breakdown of their relationship showed in the deep lines of his face. The break had been long in coming; it had hung there in the atmosphere between them in their former discussions.

But Jim intended to go on anyhow. And do what had to be done.