THE WORLD JONES MADE

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CUSSICK WAS deep in conversation with two members of the police resistance when the long black organization car pulled to a stop in front of the apartment building.

"Holy cow," one of the cops said softly, as he groped inside his coat. "What are they doing here?"

Cussick clicked of the lights; the living room dropped into instant darkness. There were two figures inside the organization car. It was an official car; the crossed-flasks emblem was neatly stenciled on the doors and hood. For a moment the figures sat, not moving, not stirring. They were obviously talking.

"We can handle them," one of the cops said nervously, from behind Cussick. "There're three of us."

Disgusted, his companion said: "This is only their front block. They're probably on the roof and up the stairs."

Rigid and apprehensive, Cussick continued to watch. In the faint light of the midnight street, one of the two seated figures looked familiar. A car spun past, and, momentarily, the figures were outlined. An aching tautness crept through his heart: he was right. For what seemed like hours the two figures remained in the car. Then the door slid open. The familiar figure stepped to the sidewalk.

"A woman," one of the cops said wonderingly.

The figure slammed the car door, turned on her heel, and started at a brisk trot toward the entrance of the apartment house.

In a hoarse, unsteady voice, Cussick said: "You two clear out. I'll take care of this alone."

They gaped at him foolishly. Then the sight of their surprised faces was cut off: Cussick had pulled open the hall door and was racing down the thick-carpeted corridor to meet her.

She was on the stairs when she saw him coming. There she halted, gazing up, breathing rapidly, holding onto the banister. She wore the severe gray suit of the organization, the little cap on her heavy blonde hair. But it was she; it was Nina. For an interval the two of them stood, Cussick at the top of the stairs, Nina below him, eyes bright, lips apart, nostrils dilated. Then she let go of the banister and scampered up the rest of the way. A brief instant as her arms reached up for him hungrily, and then he had descended his own two steps to meet her. After that an indefinite time of holding her tight, feeling her against him, smelling the warm scent of her hair; taking in, after so many months, the smooth pressure of her body, the yearning, fervent need of her.

"Oof," she gasped finally. "You're going to break me."

He led her upstairs, still holding tightly onto her, not letting her go until they were inside the deserted apartment and the door had been locked behind them.

Glancing breathlessly around, Nina stood stripping off her gloves. He could see how nervous she was; her hands shook as she mechanically pushed the gloves into her purse, "Well?" she asked huskily, "how've you been?"

"Fine." He walked a little way off to have a good view of her. Under his gaze she faltered visibly; she shrank back against the wall, half-lifted her fingers to her throat, smiled, gazed appealingly up at him like an animal that had failed to show up for its dinner.

"Can I come back?" she asked, in a whisper.

"Back?" He was afraid to imagine what she meant.

Tears filled her eyes. "Guess not."

"Of course you can come back." He moved up and took hold of her. "You know you can come back. Any time. Any time you want."

"You better let go of me," she whispered. "I'm going to start weeping. Let me get out my handkerchief."

He let go reluctantly; with awkward fingers she got out her bit of handkerchief and blew her nose. For a moment she stood dabbing at her eyes, red lips twitching, not speaking or looking at him, just standing there in her gray organization uniform, trying not to cry.

"The son of a bitch," she said finally, in a thin, weak voice.

"Jones?"

"I'll tell you... when I can." Balling her handkerchief up, she began striding around the room, arms folded, chin up, face quivering. "Well, it's a long and not very pleasant story. I've been with the organization—I guess over two years, now."

"Twenty-eight months," he informed her.

"That sounds right." She turned suddenly to him, "It's over. I'm through."

"What happened?"

Nina felt in her pockets. "Cigarette?"

He got out his pack, lit a cigarette for her, and put it between her trembling lips.

"Thanks," she said, breathing swift jets of gray-blue smoke out into the room. "First, I think we better get out of here. He may pick you up—he's picking everybody up."

"But I've been cleared," Cussick protested.

"Darling, that makes no damn difference. You've heard what he did to Pearson? No, I suppose not." Briskly taking hold of his arm she propelled him toward the door. "We'd be a lot safer out of here; take me somewhere, anywhere." Shivering, she stood up on her toes to kiss him briefly. "Something has happened. We—the organization—know it, now; Jones told us. Tomorrow morning the public will know."

"What is it?"

"The great Crusade is over. The ships are coming back. It's the end of Jones, the end of the organization. Movement, I mean. Now that we're in, we're supposed to call—"

Cussick found the doorknob. "That's wonderful," he managed.

"Wonderful?" She laughed brittlely. "It's terrible, darling. As soon as we're out of here, I'll tell you why."

He found an all-night beanery on a side street, two miles from his apartment. At the counter, a pair of drowsy patrons sat slumped over their coffee, listlessly reading newspapers. The waitress was perched in the back by the cooking controls, staring out at the night. In the corner a tune-maker ground out cadences to itself.

"Fine," Nina said, sliding into a booth at the rear of the cafe. "There's a back door, isn't there?"

Cussick located a back door behind the cooking equipment: the service and maintenance entrance. "What do you want to chew on?"

"Just coffee."

He got the two coffees, and for a time they sat stirring and meditating, glancing furtively at each other.

"You're looking pretty nice," he told her haltingly.

"Thank you. I sort of hoped I'd lost a pound or two."

"Do you mean this? You're going to stay?" He had to be sure. "You're not going off again?"

"I mean it," she answered simply, her eyes blue and direct. "Tomorrow morning I want to go and get Jackie." She added: "I've been seeing him every once in a while. I've kept sort of control over him."

"Me, too," Cussick said.

As she sipped her coffee, Nina explained to him what had happened. In short, terse words she outlined the background on the drifters, and the situation with the mobile war units.

"The ring is up, now," she told him. "The ships are turning back, returning to Earth. Why not? There's nothing else they can do. Commander Ascott's flagship, that great big thing, will be the first one to land. Right now they're clearing the New York field."

"Pollen," Cussick said, stricken. "That explains their incompleteness. He had begun to sweat cold, apprehensive drops. "We really are tangled up with something, then."

"Don't start imagining all that old scare stuff," Nina said sharply. "Invasion of Earth—beings from outer space. They're just not that way. They're plants; all they care about is protecting themselves. All they want to do is neutralize us—and that's what they've done." Helplessly, she spread her hands. "It's already happened! It's over! We have our little area to operate in, about six star systems. And then—" She smiled frigidly. "Beyond that, the ring."

"And Jones didn't know?"

"When he started, no. He's known for a year, but what could he do? The war had begun... by the time he found out it was too late. He gambled and lost."

"But he didn't admit he was gambling. He said he knew."

"That's right: he lied. He could see a lot of things, but he couldn't see everything. So now he's paying for it... he's letting the fleet come back. He led us—he led the people—into a trap. He let us down; betrayed us."

"What next?"

"Next," Nina said, pale and subdued, "he puts up his real fight. This afternoon he called all of us together, all the officials of the organization." She unbuttoned her gray coat and showed him the inside lapel. An elaborate emblem-badge was stitched into the fabric, a series of letters and numbers beneath a stylized ornament. "I'm a big shot, darling. I'm vice commissioner of the Women's Defense League... part of the new internal security system. So I was herded in with the other very-important-people, stood up in a long row, and fed the real story, our first preview of what's coming."

"How's he taking it?"

"He's almost out of his mind."

"Why?"

"Because," Nina answered, sipping her coffee, "even with his power, he's still lost. He can see defeat and death... he can see his awful, final struggle to keep alive—and he can see it failing. There it was, on his face. That terrible cadaverous look, like a dead thing. Fish eyes. No life, no luster. He stood there shaking all over; he could scarcely stand up. He twitched, he stammered... it was heartbreaking. And he told us the Crusade had failed, was coming back, that in a short while we could expect the riots to break out."

Cussick pondered. "The riots. The betrayed followers."

"Everybody. Except the skeleton of the organization, the real fanatics. They'll fight like hell for him."

"Are there many of them?"

"No, not many. Idealists, the energetic youth. After all, Jones did let us down—it's a fact, he knows it, we know it, pretty soon everybody will know it. But there are those who will stick with him anyhow." Without emotion she added, "Not me."

"Why not?"

"Because," she said, slowly, softly, "he told us what he's going to do to keep power. He's going to use the fleet as a weapon against the mobs. He's going to give the fleet its battle. And that means—" Her voice faltered, broke, then resumed. "Well, that means civil war. Just because he lied to us and betrayed us and led us into ruin we'll never get out of, doesn't mean he's going to step down; as a matter of fact he's just getting started. If anybody thinks—" Cussick reached out and caught hold of her arm. "Take it easy," he told her firmly. "Lower your voice."

"Thanks." She nodded tightly. "It's so damn awful. He knows he can't do it—he knows they'll get to him, eventually. Six months; that's how much time he has. But he's going to hang on. He's going to pull the whole world down around his ears... if he's dead he wants everybody else dead, too."

Silence.

"And," Nina finished wanly, "there's nothing we can do. Remember the assassin? Remember Pearson's attempt? It slipped right into Jones' hands... it got him into power."

"What happened to Pearson?"

"Pearson is dying. Very slowly and carefully. Not long ago Jones introduced some kind of parasite into him. It's feeding on him; eventually it'll lay its eggs in him. Jones is so proud of it; he never gets tired telling us about it."

Licking his dry lips, Cussick said hoarsely: "That's the kind of man you've been following?"

"We had a dream," Nina said simply. "And he had a dream. It went sour, it went all to pieces... but he just won't let go. He won't stop. And there's nothing that can make him stop; all we can do is sit back and watch while he goes to work. The round-ups are beginning. Everybody connected with Fedgov will be destroyed. Then—very rationally and systematically—every group even remotely capable of opposition will be smashed."

Cussick's fingers tore up his paper napkin and shredded the bits onto the floor. "Does Jones know you've crossed back?"

"I don't think so. Not yet."

"I thought he knew everything."

"He knows only what he's going to know. He may never find out; after all, I'm only one of many: he's got millions of people to keep tabs on. A lot of us sneaked off; the man who drove me was my boss, my superior. He was leaving, too, with his wife and family. They're pulling out in droves, trying to find places to hide. Setting up retreats, hoping to last it out."

"I want you to go back," Cussick said.

Nina gave a little soundless bleat. "Back?" Quavering, she asked: "You're going to try to talk to him? Reason with him?"

"No," Cussick answered. "Not exactly."

"Oh." Nina nodded, understanding. "I see."

"Probably I'm doing what Pearson did; the quixotic gesture has already been made once. But I can't sit here." He leaned toward her. "Can you? Can you sit here sipping your coffee while he gets this thing going?"

Nina couldn't meet his gaze. "All I want to do is get out of it. I want to be back with you." Her eyes on her coffee cup, fingers clutching convulsively, she hurried on: "I have a place. It's in West Africa, where there's still a lot of unclaimed land. I fixed it up months ago; everything's arranged. The place was built by organization labor gangs; it's all finished. I have Jackie down there now."

"That's not legal. It takes both of us."

"There's no such thing as not legal, any more. Don't you know that? It's what we want—it's what the organization orders. I've got it arranged; we can get down there by tomorrow morning if we leave now. An organization intercon ship will fly us to Leopoldville. From there we'll go by surface car, up into the mountains."

"Sounds fine," Cussick commented. "Sounds like we could get by. We might even be alive, six months from now."

"I'm sure of it," Nina said emphatically. "Look at those Venusians—he doesn't care about them. A lot of people are going to survive; he'll have his hands full coping with the big-city riots."

Cussick examined his wristwatch. "I want you to go back to your organization and I want you to take me along. Can you get me through the check system?"

"If we go back," Nina said evenly, her voice low and steady, "we'll never get out. I know it—I can feel it. We won't get away."

After a moment Cussick said: "One of the things Jones taught us is the importance of action. I think the time for action has come. Maybe I should have been a Jones supporter. This is the time for me to show up and volunteer as one on the Jones Boys."

Nina's trembling fingers slipped from her cup; the cup turned on its side and oozed lukewarm coffee across the table in an ugly brown film. Neither of them moved, neither of them noticed.

"Well?" Cussick inquired.

"I guess," Nina said faintly, "you don't really care about me after all. You don't really want me back."

Cussick didn't answer. He sat waiting for her to agree, to begin putting the wheels into motion that would carry him inside the Jones organization and to Jones himself. And he was wondering, idly at first and then with growing hopelessness, how he could possibly kill a man who knew the topography of the future. A man who could not be taken unawares: a man for whom surprise was impossible.

"All right," Nina said, in an almost inaudible voice.

"Can you get an organization car?"

"Sure." Listlessly, she rose to her feet. "I'll go phone. He can pick us up here."

"Fine," Cussick said, with satisfaction. "We'll wait."