THE WORLD JONES MADE

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE NEWS went the rounds. Cussick didn't have to tell anybody; they all knew. It was only a month later, in the middle of November, when Tyler called him—unexpectedly, without advanced warning. He was at his desk, surrounded by reports and incoming data. The call came by routine interoffice vidphone, so he wasn't prepared for it.

"Sorry to bother you," Tyler's animated image said, without preamble. She was at her desk, too; past her small, uniformed figure rested an electric typewriter and a neatly-organized office. Dark eyes large and serious, she held up a data tape that had been processed to her. "I see that your wife is being reclassified under her maiden name. We're supposed to identify her as Nina Longstren."

"That's right," Cussick agreed.

"Do you want to tell me what happened? I haven't seen you since that night."

"I'll meet you somewhere after work," he told her. "Wherever you want. But I can't talk now." He pointed to the mountain of work heaped on his desk. "I know I don't have to explain."

He met her on the wide front steps of the main Security building. It was seven o'clock in the evening; the chill winter sky was pitch-black. In a heavy fur-lined coat, Tyler stood waiting for him, hands deep in her pockets, a wool kerchief tied around her short black hair. As he came down the concrete steps toward her, she emerged from the shadows, a cloud of moist breath hovering like a halo around her, icy particles glittering on the fur collar of her coat.

"You can tell me as little or as much as you want," she said. "I don't want you to think I'm prying."

There wasn't much to tell. At eleven the next morning he had taken Nina home to the apartment. Neither of them said more than a few words. It wasn't until he had led her into the familiar living room that both of them realized how totally futile it was. Three days later he received the preliminary notification from the marriage bureau: Nina had instigated the process of dissolution. He saw her briefly, now and then, as she collected her possessions and cleared out of the apartment. By the time the final papers had been served, she had already set up separate living quarters.

"What was your relationship?" Tyler asked. "You were still friendly, weren't you?"

That had been the miserable part. "Yes," he said tightly. "We were still friendly." He had taken Nina out to dinner on the last legal night of their marriage. The unsigned final paper had been folded up in his pocket. After listlessly sitting for an hour in the half-deserted restaurant, they had finally pushed the silverware aside and signed the papers. That was it: the marriage was over. He had taken her to a hotel, got her immediate luggage from the apartment, and left her there. The hotel idea was an elaborate charade: both of them agreed it would be better if he didn't approach her new living quarters.

"What about Jack?" Tyler asked. She shivered and blew cloudy breath toward him. "What becomes of him?"

"Jack has been entered in a Fedgov nursery. Legally, he remains our son, but for all practical purposes we have no claim over him. We can see him when we want. But he's not responsible to us."

"Can you ever get him out? I don't know the law on those things."

"We can get him out only by joint petition." He added: "In other words, by remarrying."

"So now you're alone," Tyler said.

"That's right. Now I'm alone."

After he left Tyler, he got his car from the police lot and drove across town to the apartment. He passed seemingly endless mobs of Jones supporters—Jones Boys, as they had come to be called. At every opportunity, the organization turned out to demonstrate its growing strength. Marchers, all gripping signs, hurried through the twilight; hordes of identically-clad figures, faces rapt and devout.

END THE TYRANNICAL REIGN

OF ALIEN RELATIVISM

FREE MEN'S MINDS!

Another version flashed by his car

DISBAND THE TERRORIST THOUGHT-

CONTROL SECRET POLICE

END CONCENTRATION SLAVE LABOR

CAMPS

RESTORE FREEDOM AND LIBERTY!

Simpler slogans... and the most effective:

ON TO THE STARS

The illuminated banners flashed everywhere; he couldn't help being thrilled. There was a wild excitement about it, a furious festive sense of meaning in the idea of breaking out of the system, reaching the stars, the other systems, the endless other suns. He wasn't exempt; he wanted it, too.

Utopia. The Golden Age. They had not found it on Earth; the last war had made them see it was never coming. From Earth they had turned to the other planets; they had built up romantic fiction, told themselves pleasant lies. The other planets, they said, were green, fertile worlds, water-sparkling valleys, thick-wooded hills, Paradise: the ancient, eternal hope. But the other planets were nightmares of frozen methane gas, miles of stark rock. Without life or sound, only the blowing death of rocks and gas and empty darkness.

But the followers of Jones had not given up; they had a dream, a vision. They were sure the Second Earth existed. Somehow, somebody had contrived to keep it from them: there was a conspiracy going on. It was Fedgov on Earth; Relativism was stifling them. Beyond Earth, it was the drifters. Once Fedgov was gone, once the drifters had been destroyed... the old story. Green pastures, beyond the very next hill.

Yet, it was not disgust that Cussick felt for the dreaming, racing figures. It was admiration. They were idealists. He, on the other hand, was only a realist. And he was ashamed.

On every street corner loomed a brightly-lit table with projecting sign. At each table an organization worker sat with a petition, collecting names from the lines of waiting people.

UNIVERSAL REFERENDUM, DEMAND

FEDGOV STEP ASIDE AND APPOINT

JONES SUPREME COMMANDER TO DEAL

WITH THE PRESENT CRISIS

That was the chilling sight: the lines of tired people, worn out from a long hard day of work, willing to stand patiently in line. Not the enthusiastic faces of the dedicated followers, but these drab, ordinary citizens desiring to abolish their legal government, wishing to end a government of law and to create in its place an authority of absolute will: the unqualified whim of an individual person.

As he climbed the steps to his apartment, Cussick made out a faint high-pitched squeal. His mind, leaden and sunk in despondency, failed to react; it wasn't until he had the front door unlocked and was turning on the light that he identified the alarm signal of the vidphone.

When he snapped the set on, a visual tape-image appeared with a brief recorded message. Director Pearson's face, stern and harsh, rose up and confronted him "I want you back at the office," Pearson stated. "Get over here immediately; this cancels everything else." The image clicked, then resumed. Once more Pearson's withered mouth opened and words came out. "I want you back at the office. Get over here immediately; this cancels everything else." It was beginning a third time when Cussick cut it savagely off and allowed the set to die.

At first he was blindly annoyed. He was tired; he wanted to eat dinner and go to bed. And there was the possibility, discussed in general, abstract terms, of taking Tyler out to a show. For an instant he considered ignoring the message; Pearson had no way to check up—he might not get home for hours.

Thinking about it, Cussick stepped into the empty, deserted kitchen and began fixing himself a sandwich. By the time he had finished he had made up his mind. Hurrying back out of the apartment, he strode down the stairs to the garage and rapidly back out his car. Eating his sandwich on the way, he drove at high speed back to the police buildings. Something Tyler had said, something that seemed unimportant at the time, all at once made terrifying sense.

Pearson admitted him immediately. "Here's the situation," he explained. "Your pal Kaminski, at three-thirty this afternoon, packed up his reports, stuffed as much classified material into his briefcase as he could, and skipped."

Paralyzed, Cussick could say nothing. Foolishly, he stood wiping sandwich crumbs from his mouth.

"We weren't surprised," Pearson continued, reading from a memo, standing with his feet apart behind his desk, a grim, upright figure of a man. "We caught him a hundred miles up and forced his ship down."

"Where was he going?" Cussick managed. But he already knew.

"He had a little deal cooked up with the Jones people. Something he's been fretting about for months. In return for his data they were going to provide him with sanctuary. They had some sort of retreat fixed up; Kaminski was going to hide away and sit out the war or whatever's coming. He washed his hands of it; he was through. And, of course, he couldn't resign. Nobody resigns from the police, these days. Not in this emergency."

"What did you do with him? Where is he?"

"He's in the Saskatchewan labor camp. For the rest of his life. He's already been taken there; I had them take him right off. I'm making this public; I want this to be an example."

"But," Cussick said hoarsely, "he's sick. He's old and ill. He doesn't know what he's doing. He's gone all to pieces—he ought to be in a hospital, not a forced labor camp!"

"He ought to be shot. Only we don't shoot people any more. All we can do is put them to work for the rest of their lives. Your old instructor will be sorting bolts until he's dead." Pearson came out from behind his desk. "I'm telling you this because you're partly responsible. We've been keeping an eye on all of you; Kaminski and that ex-Communist girl, Tyler Fleming, and your wife. We know your wife is a Jones agent; we know she's been working with them, living at one of their meeting units, getting indoctrination—giving them money." Folding up his memo, he added, "Kaminski knew about it. He held up the information—tried to suppress it."

"He didn't want me to know," Cussick said.

"He didn't want us to know, you mean. We realized the chances were high that he'd take off, after your wife left you and crossed over completely. We expected him to follow, sooner or later. As far as you're concerned—" Pearson shrugged. "I don't think there's a chance in the world you'd do what he'd done. That girl, too; she's still with us. But it's a nasty business." Suddenly the harshness left his voice. "It's a terrible thing... that wonderful old man. I thought you ought to know."

"Thanks," Cussick said numbly.

"Probably you're right. Certainly he ought to be in a hospital. But we can't do that; we're fighting for our lives. A lot of us want to get out... maybe all of us."

"Maybe so," Cussick agreed, barely hearing him.

"The Jones people are getting in everywhere. The whole structure is crumbling; every class, every group. Here in Security, men are slipping off, vanishing... like Kaminski. I had to put him in a work camp. If I could, I'd kill him in cold blood."

"But you wouldn't want to."

"No," Pearson agreed. "I wouldn't want to. But I'd do it." For a moment he was silent. Then he went on: "Kaminski was handling the security program for a top-secret Fedgov project. Something under the Department of Health... I don't know what it is; nobody does, here. The Council knows, of course. It's the work of a biochemist named Rafferty. You've probably heard of him; he disappeared about thirty years ago."

"I remember," Cussick said vaguely; he couldn't bring his mind into focus. "Is Max all right? He's not injured, is he?"

"He's all right." Impatiently, Pearson went on: "You'll have to take over the security aspect of this project. I suppose that son of a bitch Jones knows all about it; we stopped Kaminski from taking his papers, but Jones may have got an oral report." Furiously, he snapped: "Anyhow, Jones can't do anything. He's not in power—yet. And until he is, we're protecting this project."

Stupidly, Cussick asked: "What do you want me to do?"

"Obviously, I'm sending you over to Rafferty so you can find out what it's all about." From his desk Pearson snatched a packet of identification papers and held them out. "Rafferty had already been notified about Kaminski. He's expecting you; everything has been set up. Get right over there and report to me as soon as you think you've got it untangled. Not the project—I don't want to hear about that. All I'm interested in is the security end. Understand?"

In a daze, Cussick made his way out of the office. A high-velocity police cruiser was idling at the curb; three weapons-cops stood around in their shiny helmets, gripping regulation machine guns. They came instantly to attention as he stumbled up to them, shocked and confused, hardly able to grasp what was happening.

"I don't know anything about this," he informed them. "I don't know where we're going."

"We already have out orders, sir," one of the weapons-cops told him. "We've got the route plotted."

A moment later he was rising up above the dark city, with no idea of his destination. To his right, one of the cops had fallen into a contented half-sleep, his gun resting in his lap. The ship was on robot pilot; the other two cops were beginning to play cards. Cussick settled back and prepared for a long trip.

The trip, however, ended abruptly. All at once the ship nosed down; one of the cops laid aside his hand of cards and resumed manual control. Below, in the darkness, stretched the winking lights of a great city. It wasn't until the ship had actually come to rest on a roof-top field that Cussick recognized it, San Francisco. Then this was what Kaminski had meant, that night. Near them... the project he had mumbled about, brooded over, but not discussed. Now he would learn what it was all about—but he wasn't thinking about the Fedgov project. He was thinking about Kaminski in the forced labor camp.

With a click the hull slid aside and the three cops filed out. Cautiously, Cussick made his way down. Incredibly chill wind whipped around him; shivering, he peered to see where he was. In the downtown business section, apparently. The grand opaque shapes of office buildings loomed up in the frigid gloom.

"What now?" he inquired irritably.

He was led along a ramp, through an intricate multi-seal lock and down a flight of metal steps. A moment later he was facing a small, rather modest-appearing elderly man in a white medical uniform. The gentleman removed his glasses, blinked, and held out his hand. Rafferty was unassuming, with a worried, preoccupied twitch to his dry features. Above his lips was the faint wisp of a unsuccessful mustache.

"Yes," he acknowledged, as they shook hands, "I'm Rafferty. But they're not here, now. You'll have to wait."

Cussick said: "Doctor, I don't know anything about this." He got out the papers Pearson had given him and handed them over. "I was called into this without warning. You got word about Kaminski?"

Rafferty glanced suspiciously around, then turned and started off down the corridor. As Cussick walked beside him, the biochemist explained: "I sent them off when Pearson notified me that Kaminski had crossed over. It was my idea; I wanted them out of here, in case Kaminski had carried information to the Jones people. Sort of a silly gesture; if Jones knows now, he knew one year ago. But I thought there might be an attack... I've watched those mobs climb up on buildings after those protoplasmic affairs. I thought they might come here—using that as a pretext."

"Where are you taking me?" Cussick asked.

"I'm going to show you the project. I have to, if you're handling security. My God, you can't take care of them if you don't understand what they are."

Cussick found himself in an elaborate maze of white-glistening, hygienic passages. Doctors wandered here and there, involved in medical work beyond his comprehension. None of them paid any attention to him.

"This is their Refuge," Rafferty explained, as he stopped before an elongated transparent wall. "I'm having the whole shell cleaned and serviced while they're out of it. Killing two birds with one stone." He examined a series of wall-gauges. "We'll be able to go inside, in a few minutes."

Cussick was looking into an enormous steamy tank. Clouds of dense moisture billowed, obscuring the macabre landscape. Machinery was at work, lumbering through the humid atmosphere, spraying from thin nozzles. The ground was spongy in appearance. Occasional thick shrubs had sprouted; lumps of vegetable matter completely alien to him. Pools of humid water oozed over the ground. Only greens and blues were visible; the whole tank resembled a marine world, rather than a land world.

"The atmosphere," Rafferty explained, "is a compound of ammonia, oxygen, freon, and traces of methane. You can see how wet it is. The temperature is high, for us—usually around a hundred degrees Fahrenheit."

Cussick could make out the sight of buildings half-lost in the dense clouds of water vapor. Small structures, their sides glistening, dripping fat drops of moisture. A damp world, hot, steamy, compact. And utterly unfamiliar.

"They live in there?" he asked slowly.

"The Refuge is their medium. It was constructed to meet their needs, a closed enclave designed to keep them alive. They call it their womb; actually, it's more an incubator: a transitionary membrane between the womb and the world. But they're never coming out to this world."

A technician approached; he and Rafferty conferred. "All right," Rafferty said. "We can go inside, now."

A series of wall locks slid aside, and the two men entered the Refuge. Cussick choked, as burning swirls of gas blew up around him. He halted, stumbled, got out his handkerchief and clapped it over his nose.

"You'll get used to it," Rafferty said wryly.

"It's like going into a steam bath. Worse." Cussick was violently perspiring; he couldn't breathe and he couldn't see. As they walked along, Rafferty calmly explained the situation.

"They can't live outside of this, and we can't live in here. So this Refuge has to be carefully maintained. It's possible to destroy them simply by opening a few valves, by letting out their air and letting ours in. Or by smashing the wall. Or by allowing it to cool off. Or by cutting their food supply; obviously, their systems require a totally different diet from our own. Kaminski always did an excellent job of protecting the Refuge; he's had secret-service men scattered around everywhere. Nobody, not even I, can get into this building without being checked by one of your men."

As the lumbering machines worked, the air gradually cleared. Now Cussick could see a trifle. And the thick wad of gas jammed into his lungs was beginning to dissolve. "Where did you send them?"

"There's a very small alternate area. So we can get in here periodically and go over it in detail." Rafferty indicated the work-teams making their way into the Refuge; the whole upper surface had been removed to make way for major equipment. "Not a duplicate of this: only a portable van. And it gives them a sense of getting out. We'll pick them up around two o'clock; they like to stay as long as possible. I'll take you inside their living quarters."

Cussick had to stoop over to get through the door. "They must be short," he commented.

"Very short, very small. Luis, the heaviest, weighs less than a hundred pounds." Rafferty halted. "This is their kitchen. Chairs, table. Dishes."

Everything was in miniature. A doll's house: tiny furniture, tiny silverware, a replica of any kitchen but on a reduced scale. From the table, Cussick picked up a wax-impregnated copy of the Wall Street Journal. "They read this?" he demanded, incredulous.

"Certainly." Rafferty took him down a tiny corridor and into a side room. "This is the quarters of one of them—Frank, his name is. Look around. You'll see books, recording tapes, clothing like our own. These are people! Human beings, in the cultural, spiritual, moral, and psychological sense. Intellectually, they're as close to us as—" He gestured. "Closer to us than some of those howling maniacs out there, with their signs and slogans."

"My God," Cussick said, locating a chess set, an electric razor, a pair of suspenders and, tacked up on the wall, a girlie calendar. On the dresser was a book edition of James Joyce's Ulysses. "They're mutants, aren't they? Wartime deviants?"

"No," Rafferty answered, "they're my children."

"Figuratively, you mean."

"No, I mean literally. I'm their father. Their embryos were removed from my wife's womb and placed in an artificial membrane. I sired each one of them; my wife and I are the parents of the whole group."

"But," Cussick said slowly, "then they're deliberate mutants."

"Certainly. For over thirty years I've worked with them, developing them according to our program. Each one is a little more perfected. We've learned a lot... most of the first ones died."

"How many are there?"

"There have been forty, in all. But only eight are alive: seven in the Refuge and one infant still in a separate incubator. It's delicate work, and we have no body of knowledge to draw from." The drab little doctor spoke calmly; he was merely stating facts. His kind of pride went beyond any boasting.

"Artificially-bred mutants," Cussick said, prowling around the cramped room. "That's why they have a common environment."

"You've seen some of the war-time sports?"

"Quite a few."

"Then you won't be shocked. It's a little difficult to take, at first. And in a way, I suppose, it's almost funny. I've seen doctors laugh out loud. They're small; they're frail; they have a kind of worried frown. Like me. They toil around the Refuge; they argue and discourse and fight and fret and make love. They have a complete community. The Refuge is their world and in it they form a total organic society."

"What's their purpose?" Cussick demanded. Dimly, he was already beginning to grasp the point of the project. "If they can't live outside, on Earth—"

"That's it," Rafferty said, matter-of-factly. "They're not supposed to live on Earth. They're intended to live on Venus. We tried to develop a group for survival on Mars, but nothing came of it. Mars and Earth are too different—but Venus is a little more likely. This Refuge, this miniature world, is an exact replica of the conditions our scout ships found on Venus."