CANTATA-141

7

The weapon which Herb Lackmore had been provided with contained a costly replica of the encephalic wave-pattern of James Briskin. He needed merely to place it within a few miles of

Briskin, screw in the handle and then, with a switch, detonate it.

It was a mechanism, he decided, which supplied little, if any, personal satisfaction. However, at least it would do the job and that, in the long run, was all that counted. And certainly it insured his personal escape, or at least greatly aided it.

At this moment, nine o'clock at night, Jim Briskin sat upstairs in a room at the Galton Plaza

Hotel, in Chicago, conferring with aides and idea-men; pickets of CLEAN, parading before the notably first class hotel, had seen him enter and had conveyed the word to Lackmore.

I'll do it at exactly nine-fifteen, Lackmore decided. He sat in the back of a rented wheel, the mechanism assembled beside him; it was no larger than a football but rather heavy. It hummed faintly, off-key.

I wonder where the funds for this apparatus appeared from, he wondered. Because these items cost a hell of a lot, or so I've read.

He was, a few minutes later, just making the final preparatory adjustments when two dark, massive, upright shapes materialized along the nocturnal sidewalk close beside the wheel. The shapes appeared to be wearing green and silver uniforms which sparkled faintly, like moonlight.

Cautiously, with a near-Psionic sense of suspicions, Lackmore rolled down the wheel window.

'What do you want ?' he asked the two CLEAN members.

'Get out,' one of them said brusquely.

'Why ?' Lackmore froze, did not budge. Could not.

There's been an alteration of plans. Engel just now buzzed us on the portable seek-com. You're to give that boulder back to us.'

'No,' Lackmore said. Obviously, the CLEAN movement had at the last moment sold out; he did not know exactly why, but there it was. The assassination would not take place as planned - that was all he knew, all he cared about. Rapidly, he began to screw the handle in.

'Engel says to forget it!' the other CLEAN man shouted. 'Don't you understand ?'

'I understand,' Lackmore said, and groped for the detonating switch.

The door of his wheel popped open. One of the CLEAN men grabbed him by the collar, yanked him from the back seat and dragged him kicking and thrashing from the wheel and out onto the sidewalk. The other snatched up the boulder, the expensive weapon, from him and swiftly, expertly, unscrewed the detonating handle.

Lackmore bit and fought. He did not give up.

It did him no good. The CLEAN man with the boulder had already disappeared into the night darkness; along with the weapon he had vanished - the boulder, and all of Lackmore's tireless, busy, brooding plans, had gone.

'I'll kill you,' Lackmore panted futilely, struggling with the fat, powerful CLEAN man who had hold of him.

'You'll kill nobody, fella,' the CLEAN man answered, and increased his pressure on Lackmore's throat.

It was not an even fight; Herb Lackmore had no chance. He had sat at a government desk, stood idly behind a counter too many years.

Calmly, with clear enjoyment, the CLEAN man made mincemeat out of him.

For someone supposedly devoted to the cult of non-violence, it was amazing how good he was at it.

From the two mutants' plush, Titan elk-beetle fuzz; carpeted office, Tito Cravelli vidphoned Jim

Briskin at the Gallon Plaza Hotel in Chicago.

'Are you all right ?' he inquired.

One of the Golden Door Moments of Bliss satellite's nurses was engaged in attempting futilely to bind up the injured brother with a dermofax pack; she worked silently, as Cravelli held the laser rifle and Francy stood by the office door with a pistol which Tito had located in the brothers'

desk.

'I'm all right,' Briskin said, puzzled. He evidently could see around Tito, past him to George Walt.

Tito said. 'I've got a. snake by the tail here, and I can't let go. You have any suggestions ? I've prevented your assassination, but how the heck am I going to get out of here ?' He was beginning to become really worried.

After meditating, Briskin said, 'I could ask the Chicago police ...'

'Niddy,' Cravelli said, in derision. 'They wouldn't come.' He knew that for a certainty. "They have no jurisdiction up here; that's been tested countless times - this isn't part of the United

States, even, let alone Chicago.'

Briskin said, 'All right. I can send some party volunteers up to help you. They'll go where I say.

We have a few who've clashed on the streets with Engel's organization; they might know exactly what to do.'

"That's more like it,' Cravelli said., relieved. But his stomach was still killing him; he could scarcely stand the pain and he wondered if there were any way he could obtain a glass of milk.

'The tension's getting me down, he said. 'And I haven't had my dinner. They'll have to get up here pretty soon, or frankly I'm going to fold up. I thought of taking George Walt off the satellite entirely, but I'm afraid I'd never get them to the launch field. We'd have to pass too many Golden

Door employees on the way.'

'You're directly over N'York now,' Jim Briskin said. 'So it won't take too long to get a few people there. How many do you want ?'

'Certainly at least a hopper-load. Actually, all you can spare. You don't want to lose your future

Attorney General, do you ?'

'Not especially.' Briskin seemed calm, but his dark eyes were bright. He plucked at his great handlebar mustache, then, pondering. 'Maybe I'll come along,' he decided.

'Why ?'

'To make sure you get away.'

'It's up to you,' Cravelli said. 'But I don't recommend it. Things are somewhat hot, up here. Do you know any girls at the satellite who could lead you through to George Walt's office ?'

'No,' Jim Briskin said. And then a peculiar expression appeared on his face. 'Wait. I know one.

She was down here in Chicago today but perhaps she's gone back up again.'

'Probably has,' Cravelli said. 'They flit back and forth like lightning bugs. Take a chance on it, anyhow. I'll see you. And watch your step.' He rang off at that point.

As he started to board the big jet-bus, which was filled with R-L volunteers, Jim Briskin found himself facing two familiar figures.

'You can't go to the satellite,' Sal Heim said, stopping him. Beside him Patricia stood somberly in her long coat, severing in the evening wind that drew in off the lakes. 'It's too dangerous ... I

know George Walt better than you do - remember ? After all, I had you figured for a business deal with them; that was to be my contribution.'

Pat said, 'If you go there, Jim, you'll never come back. I know if. Stay here with me.' She caught hold of his arm, but he tugged loose.

'I have to go,' he told her. 'My gunsel is there and I have to get him away; he's done too much for me just to leave him there.'

'I'll go instead of you,' Sal Heim said.

'Thanks.' It was a good offer, well meant. But - he had to repay Tito Cravelli for what he'd done; obviously he had to see that Tito got safely away from the Golden Door Moments of Bliss satellite. It was as simple as that. 'The best I can offer you,' he said, 'is the opportunity to ride along.' He meant it ironically.

'All right.' Sal said, nodding. 'I'll come with you.' To Pat he said, 'but you stay down below here.

If we get back, we should be showing up right away - or not at all. Come on, Jim.' He climbed the steps into the jet-bus, joining the others already there.

'Take care of yourself,' Pat said to Jim Briskin.

'What did you think of my speech ?' he asked her.

'I was in the tub; I only heard part of it. But I think it was the best you ever made. Sal said so, too, and he heard it all. Now he knows he made a terrific mistake; he should have stuck with you.'

'Too bad he didn't,' Jim said.

'You wouldn't say something along the lines of "better late than..."

'Okay,' he said. 'Better late than never.' Turning, he followed Sal Heim onto the jet-bus. He had said it, but it was not true. Too much had happened; too late was too late. He and Sal had split forever. And both of them knew it ... or rather, feared it. And sought instinctively for a new rapprochement without having any idea how it could be done.

As the jet-bus whirled upward in brisk ascent, Sal leaned over and said, 'You've accomplished a lot since I saw you last, Jim. I want to congratulate you. And I'm not being ironic. Hardly that.'

'Thanks,' Jim Briskin said, briefly.

'But you'll never forgive me for handing you my resignation when I did, will you ? Well, I can't really blame you.' Sal was silent, then.

'You could have been Secretary of State,' Jim said.

Sal nodded. 'But that's the way the fifty yarrow stalks fall. Anyhow, I hope you win, Jim. I know you will, after that speech; that certainly was a masterpiece of promising everything to everybody - a billion gold chickens in a billion gold pots. Needless to say I think you'll make a superb president. One we all can be proud of.' He grinned warmly. 'Or am I making you sick ?'

The Moments of Bliss satellite lay directly ahead of them; in the center of the breast-shaped landing field the winking pink nipple guided their vehicle to its landing, a mammary invitation beckoning to all. The principle of Yin, out in space, inflated to cosmic proportions.

'It's a wonder George Walt can perambulate,' Jim said. 'Joined at the base of the skull, the way they are. Must be damned awkward.'

'What's your point ?' Sal sounded tense and irritable now.

Jim Briskin said, 'No particular point. But you'd think one would have sacrificed the other long ago, for purpose of utility.'

'Have you ever actually seen them ?'

'No.' He had never even been to the satellite.

"They're fond of each other,' Sal Heim said.

The jet-bus began to settle on to the landing field of the satellite; the spin of the satellite provided its constant magnetic flux, sufficient to hold smaller objects to it, and Jim Briskin thought, That's where we made our mistake. We should never have allowed this place to become attractive -in any sense whatsoever. It was feeble wit, but the best he could manage under the circumstances.

Maybe Pat's right, he realized. Maybe I - and Sal Heim - will never return from this place. It was not the kind of thought he enjoyed thinking; the Golden Door satellite was not at all the kind of place he wanted to wind up. Ironic that I should be going here now, for the first time, under these circumstances, he said to himself.

The doors of the jet-bus slid back as the bus rolled to a halt.

'Here we are,' Sal Heim said, and got quickly to his feet. 'And here we go.' Along with the party volunteers he moved towards the nearest exit. Jim Briskin, after a moment, followed.

At the entrance gate the pretty, dark-haired, unclad attendant on duty smiled a white-tooth smile at them and said, 'Your tickets, please.'

'We're all new here,' Sal Heim said to her, getting out his wallet. 'We'll pay in cash.'

'Are there any girls you wish to visit in particular ?' the attendant asked, as she rang the money up on her register.

Jim Briskin said, 'A girl named Sparky Rivers.'

'ALL OF YOU ?' The attendant blinked, then shrugged her bare shoulders urbanely. 'All right, gentlemen. De gustibus non disputandum est. Gate three. Watch your step and don't jostle, please. She's in room 395.' She pointed toward gate three and the group moved in that direction.

Ahead, beyond gate three, Jim Briskin saw rows of gilded, shining doors; over some lights glowed and he understood that those were empty at the moment of customers. And, on each door, he saw the curious animated pic of the girl within; the pics called, enticed, whined at them as they approached each in turn, searching for room 395.

'Hi there!'

'Hello, big fellow.'

'Could you hurry ? I'm waiting ..."

'Well, how are you ?'

Sal Heim said, 'It's down this way. But you don't need her, Jim; I can take you to their office.'

Can I trust you ? Jim Briskin asked himself silently. 'All right,' he said. And hoped it was a wise choice.

'This elevator,' Sal said. Press the button marked C.' He entered the elevator; the rest of the group followed, crowding in after him, as many as could make it. More than half the group remained outside in the corridor. 'You follow us,' Sal instructed them. 'As soon as you can.'

Jim touched the C button and the elevator door shut soundlessly. 'I'm depressed,' he said to Sal. 'I

don't know why.'

'It's this place,' Sal said. 'It isn't your style at all, Jim. Now, if you were a necktie or a flatware or a poriferous vobile salesman, you'd like it. You'd be up here every day, health permitting.'

'I don't believe so,' Jim said. 'No matter what line of work I was in.' It went against everything ethical - and esthetic - in his makeup.

The elevator door slid back.

'Here we are,' Sal said. 'This is George Walt's private office.' He spoke matter of factly. 'Hello,

George Walt,' he said, and stepped out of the elevator.

The two mutants sat at their big cherrywood desk in their specially constructed wide couch. One of the bodies sagged like a limp sack and one eye had become fused-over and empty, lolling as it focused on nothing.

In a shrill voice the head said, 'He's dying. I think he's even dead; you know he's dead.' The active eye fixed malignantly on Tito Cravelli, who stood with his laser rifle, on the far side of the office. In despair, one of the living hands poked at the dangling, inert arm of his companion body. 'Say something!' the head screeched. With immense difficulty the living body struggled to its feet; now its silent companion flopped against it and in horror it pushed the burdening lifeless sack away.

A faint spasm of life stirred the dangling sack; it was not quite dead. And, on the face of the uninjured brother, wild hope appeared. At once it tottered grotesquely toward the door.

'Run!' the head bleated, and clumsily groped for escape. 'You can make it!' it urged its still-living companion. The four-legged, scrambling joint creature bowled over the surprised volunteers at the door; together they all went down in a floundering heap, the mutant among them, squealing in panic as the injured body buried the other beneath it, struggling to rise.

Jim Briskin, as George Walt lurched upright, dived at them. He caught hold of an arm and hung on.

The arm came off.

He held onto it as George Walt stumbled up to their four feet and out the office door, into the corridor beyond.

Staring down at it, he said, 'The thing's artificial.' He handed it to Sal Heim.

'So it is,' Sal agreed, stonily. Tossing the arm aside he hastily ran after George Walt; Jim accompanied him and together they followed the mutants along the thick-carpeted corridor. The three-armed organism moved badly, crashing into itself as its twin bodies swung first wide apart and then stunningly together. It sprawled, then, and Sal Heim seized the right hand body around the waist.

The entire body came loose, arm and legs and trunk. But without the head. The other body - and single head - managed, incredibly, to get up and continue on.

George Walt was not a mutant at all. It - he - was an ordinarily-constituted individual. Jim

Briskin and Sal watched him go, his two legs pumping vigorously, arms swinging.

After a long time Jim said, 'Let's - get out of here.'

'Right.' Nodding in agreement, Sal turned to the party volunteers who had trickled out into the corridor behind them. Tito Cravelli emerged from the office, rifle in hand; he saw the severed one-armed trunk which had been half of the two mutants, glanced up swiftly with perceptive understanding as the remaining portion disappeared from view past a corner of the corridor.

'We'll never catch them now,' Tito said.

'Him,' Sal Heim corrected bitingly. 'I wonder which one of them was synthetic, George or Walt.

And why did he do it ? I don't understand.'

Tito said, 'A long time ago one must have died.'

They both stared at him.

'Sure,' Tito said calmly. 'What happened here today must have happened before. They were mutants, all right, joined from birth, and then the one body perished and the surviving one quickly had this synthetic section built. It couldn't have gone on alone without the symbiotic arrangement because the brain - ' He broke off. 'You saw what it did to the surviving one just now; he suffered terribly. Imagine how it must have been the first time, when ...'

'But he survived it,' Sal pointed out.

'Good for him,' Tito said, without irony. 'I'm frankly glad he did; he deserved to.' Kneeling down, he inspected the trunk. 'It looks to me as if this is George. I hope he can get it restored. In time.'

He rose, then. 'Let's get upstairs and back to the field; I want to get out of here.' He shivered.

'Then I want a glass of warm, non-fat milk. A big one.' The three of them, with the party volunteers struggling behind, made their way silently back to the elevator. No one stopped them.

The corridor, mercifully, was empty. Without even a pic to leer and cajole at them.

When they arrived back in Chicago, Patricia Heim met them and at once said, 'Thank God.' She put her arms around her husband, and he hugged her tight. 'What happened ? It seemed to take so long, and yet it actually wasn't long at all; you've only been gone an hour.'

'I'll tell you later,' Sal said shortly. 'Right now I just want to take it easy.'

'Maybe I'll cease advocating shutting the Golden Door satellite down,' Jim said suddenly.

'What ?' Sal said, astonished.

'I may have been too hard. Too puritanical. I'd prefer not to take away his livelihood; it seems to me he's earned it.' He felt numb right now, unable really to think about it. But what had shocked him the most, changed him, had not been the sight of George Walt coming apart into two entities, one artificial, one genuine. It had been Lurton Sands' disclosure about the mass of maimed bibs.

He had been thinking about this, trying to see a way out. Obviously, if the maimed bibs were to be awakened at all they would have to be last in sequence. And by then perhaps replacement organs would be available in supply from the UN's organ bank. But there was another possibility, and he had come onto it only just now. George Walt's corporate existence proved the workability of wholly mechanical organs. And in this Jim Briskin saw hope for Lurton Sands' victims.

Possibly a deal could be made with George Walt; he - or they - would be left alone if they would reveal the manufacture of their highly sophisticated and successful artificial components. It was, most likely, a West German firm; the cartels were most advanced in such experimentation. But it could of course be engineers under contract to the satellite alone, in permanent residence there.

In any case, four hundred lives represented a great number, worth any effort at saving. Worth any deal, he decided, with George Walt, which could be brought off.

'Let's get something warm to drink,' Pat said. 'I'm freezing.' She started toward the front door of

Republican-Liberal party headquarters, key in hand. 'We can fix some synthetic non- toxic coffee inside.'

As they stood around the coffee pot waiting for it to heat, Tito said, 'Why not let the satellite decline naturally ? As emigration begins it can serve a steadily dwindling market. You implied something along those lines in your Chicago speech anyhow.'

'I've been up there before,' Sal said, 'as you know. And it didn't kill me. Tito's been there before, too, and it didn't warp or kill him.'

'Okay, okay,' Jim said. 'If George Walt leaves me alone, I'll leave them alone. But if they keep after me, or if they won't make a deal regarding artif-org construction - then it'll be necessary to do something. In any case the welfare of those four hundred bibs comes first.'

'Coffee's ready.' Pat said, and began pouring.

Sipping, Sal Heim said, 'Tastes good.'

'Yes,' Jim Briskin agreed. In fact the cup of hot coffee, synthetic and non-toxic as it had to be

(only low-stratum dorm-housed Cols drank the genuine thing) was exactly what he needed. It made him feel a lot better.

Although the time was dreadfully late at night, Myra Sands had made up her mind to call Art and

Rachael Chaffy at their dorm. She had reached a decision regarding their case, and the moment had arrived to tell them.

When the vidphone connection had been made to their public hall booth, Mrs. Sands said, 'I'm sorry to bother you so late, Mr. Chaffy.'

"That's all right,' Art said, sleepily. Obviously, he and his wife had gone to bed. 'What is it ?'

'I think you should go ahead and have your baby,' Myra said.

'You do ? But...'

'If you had listened to Jim Briskin's Chicago speech, you would know why,' Myra said. 'There'll soon be a need for new families; everything has changed. My advice to you and your wife is to apply to Terran Development for permission to emigrate by means of their new system. You might as well be among the first. You deserve to be.'

Bewildered, Art Chaffy said, 'Emigrate ? You mean they finally found a place ? We don't have to stay here ?'

'Buy a homeopape,' Myra said patiently. 'Go out now and get it; find a vending machine, read about the speech. It'll be on the front page. And then start packing your things.' TD will have to accept you, she knew. Because of Jim Briskin's speech. They've been deprived of a choice.

'Gee, thanks, Mrs. Sands,' Art Chaffy mumbled, dazed. 'I'll tell Rachael right away; I'll wake her up. And - thanks for calling.'

'Good night, Mr. Chaffy,' Myra said. 'And good luck.' She hung up, then, satisfied.

Too bad, she thought, that there's no way I can celebrate. Unfortunately no one else is up this late. Because that's what this calls for: some kind of a party.

But at least she could go to bed tonight with a clear conscience.

For perhaps the first time in years.