Fellowship Of Fear

THIRTEEN

"I can’t talk to you now, man. It has really hit the fan." His desk a jumble of papers, Eric spoke through a ball-point pen clamped between his teeth, while one hand picked up the telephone receiver and the other moved to dial. His laid-back image was showing signs of strain. Even his carefully teased hair looked dispirited, the strands having separated at a crucial point to reveal a large expanse of bare, gleaming scalp beneath.

"I don’t have time to come back later," Gideon said. "I need to talk to you now." He sat down.

"Come on, man. The teaching schedules are all screwed up. Half the bases are on exercises; there are alerts all over the place-"

"What about my schedule? Is it being changed?"

"Where you supposed to go? Torrejon?"

"Yes."

"For get it, man. I don’t know where you’re going, but you ain’t going to Torrejon." He shuffled among the papers and folders on his desk. "What?" he said, staring at the paper he had dug out. He passed it to Gideon.

The heading said, Spain, Oct-Dec 1981. Upper Division and Graduate. The rest of the sheet consisted of a single column showing NATO bases and course offerings. Most of the courses had been crossed out in pen.

Zaragoza: All courses crossed out.

Rota: All crossed out.

Torrejon: Among several other listings was ANTH 242 Emergence of Man OLIVER. Like the others, it had been crossed out. Unlike them, however, a red circle has been drawn around it and a marginal note written, also in red: HOLD CLASS AS SCHEDULED. FRR, 5/10

FRR. That would be Frederick R. Rufus; 5/10 was October 5, European-style. Today’s date.

"Sonofagun," Eric said. "I know that wasn’t there this morning. Huh." He sat staring at the paper.

Dr. Rufus must have gone in and checked the schedules right after he had talked with Gideon, then, and made sure his Torrejon request was put into effect.

Eric got up and went to a file cabinet, where he stood with his back to Gideon, going through some manila folders. A Western-style shirt accentuated the soft bulge that spilled over his belt in back. If anything, he had gotten a little puffier in the last two weeks.

"Yeah, here it is, man," he said, turning. "Got your packet all ready; never got around to canceling it. Train ticket to Frankfurt, Lufthansa to Madrid. Bus schedule to Torrejon. BOQ reservations, too." He handed the packet to Gideon. His forehead glistened with an oily, unhealthy sheen. "You’ll love it; fantastic chicks."

"So you said. Eric, why did you route me through Heidelberg to get me to Madrid?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why not direct from Sigonella to Torrejon? Or through Rome? Why all the way back up to Germany?"

Eric bristled. His hand went nervously to his hair. "Hell, I don’t remember why I got your particular itinerary.

Maybe all the direct flights were booked. It happens all the time. The instructors usually like to stop off in Heidelberg anyway; use the library, see some people. I thought I was doing you a favor."

"I appreciate that, Eric. It’s just that it does seem the long way around."

"Hey, look, man, I got forty fucking itineraries to worry about." With the back of his hand, he made an irritated swipe at the papers on his desk. "You know how much work that is? Shit, I’ve been on the phone to the airlines for eight hours a day for two weeks. There’s tourists all over the goddamn place. Shit." He plopped back into his chair; the cushion emitted a sympathetic, whistling sigh.

"I don’t know, Eric-"

"Hell, I talked it over with Rufe; he thought it was okay."

"With Dr. Rufus? Does he get involved in that kind of detail?"

"Yeah, sometimes. Especially with you. You’re the visiting fellow, which is such a big deal." His expression implied a differing opinion. "Besides, you were getting beat up every time you turned around. He was just checking to see you were getting treated right. He didn’t beef, and I don’t see what you’re complaining about. Christ, sometimes I gotta route people through Oslo to get them to Spain."

Gideon sighed. "Let me ask you another question, Eric-"

"Look, man, can’t you give me a phone call next week? I’m up to my armpits right now." He slapped the arms of his chair. "Ah, what the hell. You want some coffee?"

Gideon shook his head. Going to a messy table at the side of the room, Eric poured water from a pot on a one-ring hot plate, then added instant coffee, stirring it with a plastic spoon. He took a sip, made a face, added sugar with the same spoon, and returned to his chair.

"So what are the questions?" He tossed back a slug of coffee as if it were a shot of bourbon.

"I was wondering what you were doing in Sigonella last week."

"I was making my Italian round. Logistics checks out every one of our bases at least once every two years. Looks over the accommodations, settles complaints, makes new contracts, that kind of stuff." He frowned. "Why?"

"Just sorry I missed you," Gideon said. "If you’re going to be down at Torrejon next week, let’s have dinner."

Eric tossed down another slug of coffee, peering suspiciously at Gideon over the rim of the cup. "All right, I just might be there."

"Oh?" said Gideon, feeling his breath quicken.

"Yeah, I’m scheduled to hit Spain and Greece in the next few weeks. Of course, with all the alerts, I don’t know. I’ll give you a call."

As hard as it was to believe, then, everything was beginning to point to this harried, laid-back, not very intelligent administrator. He had been at Sigonella at the right time, and he was going to be at Torrejon at the right time.

Eric drained the last of his coffee and made another face. "Yuck."

Then they sat and looked at each other for a long time. Gideon attempted to read Eric’s expression. Was he trying to stare him down, or did those half-closed, dull eyes reflect no more than a bovine resignation to Gideon’s continued presence? Gideon couldn’t tell.

Finally Eric frowned with the expression of a man who had something to say. He closed his eyes and belched-a remarkably deep, resonant sound, around which he managed to enunciate with great clarity the word "barf."

In the hallway, Gideon’s anticipated elation did not materialize. As telling as Eric’s presence at Sigonella was, as well as his planned trip to Torrejon, Gideon couldn’t bring himself to believe the Californian was a spy. If ubiquity were evidence of spying, then Gideon was a proven spy, too. Interesting thought; in spite of John’s reassurance, it was still possible that NSD’s Bureau Four suspected him, on the same grounds that he suspected Eric. And when they found out-if they didn’t know already-that Gideon was going to be at Torrejon upon his own insistence, and for not terribly cogent reasons, he was going to be even more suspect.

No, the only difference between Eric and him was that Gideon knew he wasn’t a spy, which left Eric as the only other USOC’r, as far as he was aware, to be at the crucial bases at the right times. And yet, Eric just didn’t feel right as a spy. Could spies be that fatuous, that transparent? Moreover, his explanation of Gideon’s routing through Heidelberg had the ring of truth.

All the same, he’d see that the information about Eric got back to Bureau Four if he could. He’d have to do it through John and his "contact." How absurd that he was unable to talk to them himself, but he didn’t know who or where they were, and they weren’t on formal speaking terms with Marks. Ridiculous. It was no way to run a cold war.

"Well, well, Gideon Oliver, talking to himself like a USOC veteran, and after just three weeks. My, my."

Without realizing it, he had entered the faculty library. At a desk behind the counter sat Bruce Danzig, regarding him from beneath eyebrows facetiously raised, lips set in a prim little smirk.

Gideon got quickly to the point. "Hello, Bruce. I wanted to return the books I borrowed before I went to Sicily." He placed the two slim texts on the counter. "I understand you’ve been saving some new ones for me."

"My, aren’t we businesslike today?" Danzig said. Then he deepened his voice in imitation of Gideon’s. "Yes, sir, Professor Oliver, sir!" His chin, never very prominent, disappeared into his collar as he delivered a punctilious mock salute.

Gideon unenthusiastically returned it with a brief, pro forma smile. "If you have the books available, I’d appreciate seeing them."

The frivolity left Danzing’s expression; his voice turned glacial. "I’m afraid I’m not sure to what you’re referring. Did you ask me to hold some books for you?"

Oh Christ, now I’ve hurt his feelings, thought Gideon. He hadn’t meant to; he simply wasn’t in the mood to deal with Danzig’s finical little witticisms. He tried to sound more friendly. "No, but Dr. Rufus mentioned to me that you’d been kind enough to find some books you thought I might use."

"Oh yes, I recall. It was Dr. Rufus, not I." He sniffed; a gesture of disdain, Gideon supposed. "We were looking over the new arrivals, and he-not I-noted some for which he thought you might have some use. Inasmuch as you showed so little interest in our collection before, I must admit I haven’t personally made any great attempt to search out resources for you."

"I think you’ve developed an excellent collection, Bruce. It was simply that I didn’t need anything last time. But now, with this ‘Emergence of Man’ series, I need all the help I can get."

The little librarian was not won over. He continued to watch Gideon coldly.

The hell with it, Gideon thought. "Look, do you want to let me see them…?"

"Of course." With a series of meticulous movements- push the desk drawer closed, delicately move back the chair, swivel to the right-Danzig arose and went to the shelves behind the counter. He found the four books at once and brought them to Gideon with a viperous little smile.

For no reason he could think of, a sudden thought struck Gideon. "I don’t suppose you’re going to be in Torrejon next week?"

"Torrejon? No, why? What would I go to Torrejon for?"

"Oh, I just thought we might get together. Didn’t I hear you were in Sigonella last week or the week before? I missed you then."

"I, in Sigonella? No, you’re confusing me with Bozzini, heaven forbid. Fortunately, my job doesn’t require me to travel. Besides, I detest the Mediterranean. Did you want these books or not?"

Too bad, Gideon thought. Danzig would have made a more satisfactory spy. Glancing briefly at the books, he saw that two were revised editions of old introductory texts, but the third was Campbell’s excellent Human Evolution, and the fourth was a reprint of Weidenreich’s massive, thirty-year-old Skull of Sinanthropus Pekinensis, one of those classics he’d somehow never gotten around to.

"I’ll take these two," he said, signing the cards. "Thanks, Bruce. I’ll see you next week."

"I wait with bated breath."

When Gideon got back to the BOQ at 4:30, Janet hadn’t returned from the Heidelberg University Library yet. He left a note on her door, asking her to stop by, and went to his room. He hadn’t left any slivers or paper clips or hairs in the door that morning-what was the point now?-but he looked carefully through the room, list of articles in hand. Everything seemed as he had left it.

Seemed. He knew, however, that he was dealing with an antagonist more subtle and expert than he had previously thought. Why he had an antagonist at all was the real question. If he knew why Ferret-face was dogging him, why he looked at him with such hatred…but he didn’t know, and it was too late in a long day to do any serious speculation about it.

He poured himself a little Scotch, found three hoary ice cubes in a tiny compartment in the refrigerator, and sat down with the Campbell text-it was good to get the weight off that ankle-for a different sort of speculation. He was, after all, an anthropologist, not a spy, and was soon engrossed in Campbell’s elegant theories on the evolution of bipedal locomotion.

Janet knocked on his door a little before six. His heart gave a little jump when he saw her. Women book collectors or not, she was the most attractive woman he’d seen in a long time. The only one, really.

"Good day at der Bibliothek?" he asked, surprised by a slight thickening of his voice.

She was standing in the doorway, oddly hesitant.

"Come on in," he said. "Have a drink. I might even be able to dig up some more ice."

"I can’t, Gideon. I don’t have much time."

"Why, what’s the matter?"

"Well, I have a date."

"A date?" He stood there with the drink in his hand. "With someone else?" he added stupidly.

"Yes, why not? What’s so amazing about that?" When he didn’t say anything, she went on irritably. "Did you think I was just going to come in and say ‘Take me, I’m yours?’ Listen, Gideon, you just walked into my life yesterday, and you’re going away again tomorrow. I’m not going to sit around pining away just because I went to bed with you last night."

"Who do you have a date with?" It was all he could think of to say.

"I don’t see why that’s any concern of yours." Gideon wondered what she had to be angry about.

"Yes, you’re quite right," he said. "I guess my male chauvinistic value system ran away with me. Enjoy your date. Thank you for last night. I’ll drop you a line from Torrejon."

To his surprise, her eyes brimmed suddenly with tears. In her annoyance with them, she stamped her foot like a little girl. Gideon wanted very much to take her in his arms and kiss the moisture that shone on her soft cheek. He held back, however, half in what he knew was childish retaliation, half because he wasn’t sure how she would react.

"That’s what I hate about women," she said. "Damn it. We cry at the drop of a hat. It doesn’t mean anything. Our glands are different." He was sure she wanted to brush the tears away, but she let them stay. "All right, it’s with Eric. It’s just a stupid dinner at some stupid Heidelberg professor’s house."

Janet with Eric-gross, fat Eric. Gideon suppressed the images that sprang quickly to his mind.

"Have a wonderful time," he said. "It’s been very pleasant knowing you. Perhaps I’ll see you again when I come back to Heidelberg."

"Damn you, Gideon, if you wanted to see me tonight, you could have asked me this morning, instead of assuming you owned me like some caveman. You stupid man!" She glared at him through her tears, looking wondrously huggable. "Stupid man! "

His mood was ambivalent as he watched her stride down the hall. On the one hand, he was very sorry indeed that he wouldn’t be spending the evening in her company and (another male chauvinist assumption) the night in her arms. But there was also an unmistakable if somewhat wistful sense of reprieve; clearly, he had narrowly missed becoming enmeshed in a Meaningful Relationship. He sighed. Maybe later on he’d be ready to try that. In the meantime, he would have been happy to settle for a Meaningful Experience or even a Moderately Significant Relationship. A Good Lay wouldn’t have been so bad, either.

He poured himself another Scotch and settled down to spend the evening grappling with the intricacies of simian brachiation.

A little after midnight, he heard her voice at the door.

"Gideon!"

Without putting on a robe and almost without waking up, he jumped from the bed and opened the door a few inches.

"Yes?" he said, blinking at her in the glare of the lit hallway. She smelled of the cool night, and when she laughed softly at him, he shivered with…lust? Love? He wasn’t sure.

"What are you laughing at?" he said.

"You. Look at your hair. You look as if you’ve just come out of six-month hibernation. Open the door some more. I bet you’re not wearing anything."

As he knew she would, she suddenly pushed at the door. He offered resistance of the most token sort, and she was quickly inside, turning on the light as he took her into his arms and pressed his lips against the soft, clear skin of her cheek, just where he had wanted to kiss her earlier. The roughness of her wool suit against his bare skin and the slipperiness of the slip under her skirt excited him at once.

"Eek," she said. "Just as I thought. There’s a naked man in here, too. Good heavens, this place is full of them."

"Mmm," he said, nuzzling at her faintly perfumed throat. "How was dinner?"

"Lousy. I couldn’t wait to get back here to say something to you."

Her seriousness brought his face up, but he didn’t let her go. "What is it?"

"Well…," she said, laying her head on his shoulder, wanting to be coaxed.

"Come on, tell Papa," Gideon said, his naked skin jumping where her long hair lay over it.

"Well…just…take me, I’m yours." She raised her eyes to his. "If you want me."

Without warning, his eyes filled.

"Gideon," she said, startled, "what’s this?" A tentative finger explored his wet cheek.

Gideon pretended a gruff embarrassment. "So, I’m crying. Contrary to your theory, lachrymal glands are not sexually specific organs. Males have them, too."

"How poetically you put things," she said. "It’s lovely."

He kissed her on the lips-a lingering, eyes-closed kiss, inhaling the peachlike fragrance of her breath.

When he came up for air, she said, "You know, I feel somewhat overdressed for the occasion."

"I see what you mean," Gideon said, his fingers already at the buckle of her belt. "Why don’t we lie down and discuss it?"

In the morning he made it a point to request the pleasure of her company when he returned the following week.