THE WORLD JONES MADE

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

DARK RAIN swished down on the car as the gray-uniformed organization driver guided it conscientiously along through the heavy, slow-moving traffic. In the back, Nina and Cussick sat silently together, neither of them speaking.

Outside the car, blinding headlights loomed up, reflected, from a billion raindrops streaking the plastic windows. Signal lights blinked on and off; within the dashboard, answering relays closed in response. The driver had little to do beyond steering; most of the controls were automatic circuits. He was young and blond, a humorless functionary, performing his job skillfully, dispassionately.

"Hear the rain," Nina murmured.

The car halted for a series of rerouting lights. Cussick began shifting restlessly. He lit a cigarette, stubbed it out, then jerkily lit another. Presently Nina reached out and took hold of his hand.

"Darling," she said wretchedly. "I wish—what the hell can I do? I wish I could do something."

"Just get me in."

"But how are you going to do it? It isn't possible."

Warningly, Cussick indicated the driver. "Let's not talk about it."

"He's all right," Nina said. "He's part of my staff." The car started up, and in a moment they were on the broad freeway that led directly to the Fedgov buildings, where Jones had entrenched himself. It wouldn't be long, Cussick realized. Probably another half hour. Glumly, he gazed out at the lines of speeding cars. There was a lot of traffic. Along the pedestrian ramps shuffled hunched-over citizens, commuters who had been deposited by the urban expresses, dumped off to shift for themselves in the pouring rain.

From his pocket, he got out a small glittering bauble, carefully wrapped in translucent brown fiber. He sat with his knees apart, holding the bauble cupped in his hands.

"What is it?" Nina asked. Pathetically, she reached out to touch it. "A present for me?"

"We used these all the time," Cussick said, blocking her fingers. "Until Pearson ruled against them. You've probably heard about them... the Communists developed them during the war as instruments for conversion. We picked the idea up, too. This is called a lethe-mirror."

"Oh," Nina said. "Yes." She nodded. "I've heard of them. But I didn't think there were any left."

"Everybody kept one or two." In Cussick's hands the bauble shimmered menacingly. All he had to do was remove the brown-fiber covering; it was as simple as that. The mirror was a focus that caught and trapped the attention of the higher brain centers.

The car slowed a trifle. "Are we there?" Cussick demanded instantly.

"No sir," the young driver answered. "There's some kids trying to hitch a ride. Want me to pick them up?" He added, "It's raining pretty hard."

"Sure," Cussick said. "Pick them up."

The four kids who tumbled gratefully into the car were loaded down with drenched wicker baskets and the sodden remains of pennants. "Thanks," the leader gasped, a girl in her middle teens. "You saved our lives."

"We were out selling Crusade buttons," another girl explained, mopping rain water from her face. Wet brown hair plastered over her ears, she hurried on joyfully: "And we had sold almost all of them, too, before the rain started."

The third teen-ager, a plump red-faced boy, gazed in awe at Nina and squeaked: "Are you in the organization?"

"That's right," Nina said thinly.

The girls mopped at their drenched clothes, struggled to dry their hair, exuded the smell of wet fabric and excitement. "Say," one of them noticed, "this is an official car."

The first girl, small and sharp-faced, with large interested eyes, said shyly to Cussick: "Do you have a Crusade button?"

"No," Cussick answered shortly. The irony of it hit home: this was a typical group of young fanatics, peddling buttons to raise Crusade funds. Standing on street comers, stopping cars and pedestrians, shoppers and commuters, faces flushed and alive with the fervor of their cause. In the four young faces he saw nothing but innocent excitement; for them, the Crusade was a great and noble thing; a spiritual salvation.

"Would you—" the little sharp-faced girl began, glancing up at him timidly, "would you like to buy a Crusade button?"

"Sure," Cussick said. "Why not?" He dug into his pocket. "How much?"

Nina made a strangled sound and ducked her head; he ignored her as he fished out a few crumpled bills.

"Ten dollars is the usual," the girl said, reaching quickly into her wicker basket for a button. "Anything you want... it's for a good cause."

He gave her the money; gravely, hesitantly, she pinned the button on his coat. There it hung, a small shield of bright plastic, with the raised sword of the Crusade superimposed on the familiar crossed-flasks. It gave him an unhappy and intricate feeling to sense it there. Suddenly he reached forward and lifted a second button from the wicker basket.

"Here," he said gently to Nina: "For you."

Solemnly, he pinned it on her coat. Nina smiled faintly and reached out to touch his hand.

"Now we all have one," the sharp-faced girl said shyly.

Cussick paid her for the second button, and she scrupulously put the money with the other contributions. The six people in the back seat rode on through the rain, silent and subdued, each deep in his own thoughts. Cussick wondered what the four kids would be doing and thinking in a few more days. God knew... God and Jones, the two of them knew. He certainly didn't.

The driver let off the kids at a central intersection; the doors slammed after them, they waved thankfully, and again the car picked up speed. Ahead lay the ominous gray square that was the reinforced, bomb-proof Fedgov buildings. They were almost there.

"Those kids," Nina said sadly. "That's the way I felt, not so long ago."

"I know," Cussick answered.

"They don't mean any harm. They just don't understand."

He leaned down and kissed her; her moist, warm lips clung futilely to his own until, regretfully, he pulled away. "Wish me luck," he told her shortly.

"I do." She clutched fervently at him. "Please try not to let anything happen to you."

Cussick touched his coat. Inside, in addition to the mirror, was a standard police pistol. The mirror was for Jones; the pistol was to get himself back out again, past the guards. "How far inside can you get me?" he asked her. "How high does your authority go?"

"All the way," she answered, face stark-white, breath coming in rapid gasps. "It won't be hard... they all know me."

"Here we are, sir," the driver said. The car had left the freeway; now it was descending a long ramp toward the garages of the building. An echoing rumble rose around them; the wheels of the car were gliding over steel runners. In the gloom, lights flashed on and off; the car responded instantly. It slowed almost to a halt as the driver turned it over to the garage control. Moving at a snail's pace, it gradually came to a halt. The motor clicked off, and the brake spiraled itself into lock-position. They had arrived.

Warily, Cussick opened the door and stepped out. He recognized this chamber; the vast concrete cave, in the old days, had housed his car. A gray-uniformed attendant was walking over: that was the only difference. The man wore an organization uniform, instead of the police brown. He touched his cap respectfully. "Evening," he murmured. "Can I have your permit?"

"I'll talk to him," Nina said, slipping quickly from the car and hurrying over beside Cussick. She fumbled in her purse and got out the metal plate. "Here it is; the car's mine."

"When did you want to pick it up?" the attendant asked, examining the plate and then returning it to Nina. The first hurdle, at least, was over. "You want it stored overnight?"

"Keep it up on the ground level," Nina instructed, with a questioning glance at Cussick. "We may need it any time."

"Yes ma'am," the attendant agreed, again touching his cap. "It'll be waiting for you."

As they entered the elevator, Cussick's legs were weak. Nina was terribly pale; he took hold of her and dug his fingers into her arm until she winced.

"I'm all right," she said brightly.

"Is it always this busy?" They were crushed in with a tightly-packed group of earnest-faced officials.

"Not always. There's been so much, lately..." Her voice trailed off vaguely. "A lot of activity."

The elevator closed at that moment: they stopped talking, grit their teeth and hung on to consciousness. Officials were muttering out floor numbers; Nina pulled herself together and said: "Seventeen, please."

They emerged with a knot of fast-moving dignitaries who hurried off in various directions. Ahead loomed the reception lounge and the broad information desk. Nina advanced toward the desk, her heels clicking on the hard, polished floor.

"I'd like an appointment with Mr. Jones," she said huskily to the uniformed officials behind the desk. From her purse she got out all her identification papers and laid them on the surface of the desk. "It's for this man."

Leisurely, the official picked up her papers and studied them. He was middle-aged, with a bulging neck that hung in wattles over his tight collar. His fingers were plump, white, efficient. With petulant, bureaucratic interest, he examined each paper before he spoke. "What's the reason for your request? You'll have to go through the regular channels, Miss Longstren. We have appointments booked up for the next twelve hours." Reluctantly, he got out his book and ran a finger down the column. "It might not be until tomorrow morning."

Nina shot a mute, agonized look at Cussick. "This is an emergency," she faltered. "It should be put right through."

"Well, then," the official said, without particular interest, "you'll have to fill out a special declaration." From a drawer he took a form-pad and turned it toward her. "Indicate the particulars in section five and again in section eight. Make certain the carbons are in properly." He pointed to a small table in the corner of the lounge. "You can fill it out over there."

Numbly, Nina and Cussick carried the pad to the table and seated themselves. "Well?" Nina demanded, in a stricken voice. "What'll I say?"

"Say you're with somebody from the astronomical research labs. Say there've been some clues on the nature of the ring around us."

Dutifully, Nina filled out the form. "See those men waiting over there? They're waiting to see him... and they're all big shots. He's been in conference for a week straight."

She signed the form, and the two of them walked slowly back to the desk. A line had formed; when their turn finally came, the official brusquely accepted the form, scanned it, tore it from the pad, and dropped it into the recording slot. "Please be seated," he told them fussily. "It'll be a half-hour at the very least before Mr. Jones has time to examine your request." He added: "Help yourselves to magazines."

They found seats. Bolt upright, the two of them waited, magazines clutched listlessly. Officials moved back and forth everywhere; from the side corridors came the sound of voices, the muted clank of equipment. The building hummed with restless activity.

"They're busy," Cussick commented. He thumbed through a copy of the Saturday Evening Post, and then restored it to the rack.

Nina nodded, too frightened to speak. Eyes fixed on the floor, she sat rigidly clutching her purse and magazine, lips a thin bloodless line. Cussick reached into his pocket until his fingers touched the lethe-mirror. Stealthily, he unwrapped it. Now it was operative... all he had to do was draw it out.

But he didn't really believe he had a chance.

"Are you sorry?" Nina asked faintly. "Wish you hadn't come?"

"No," he answered. "I'm not sorry."

"It isn't too late... we could just get up and leave."

He didn't answer. He was afraid to; it wouldn't take much more only the merest pressure, to lift him to his feet and carry him out of the building. A house with Nina and Jackie. The three of them together again, as they had been... he turned his mind from the thought and contemplated the dour information clerk, processing forms.

The clerk nodded to him. Stiffly, unbelievingly, Cussick got up and walked over. "Us?" he inquired hoarsely.

"You can go on in."

Cussick blinked. "You mean it's cleared?"

"Mr. Jones accepted it immediately." Without looking up from his work, the clerk nodded toward a side door. "In there, and please complete your business as quickly as possible. Others are waiting."

Cussick walked back to Nina; she watched him, wide-eyed, all the way across the lounge. "I'm going in," he told her briefly. "It might be better if you left. As long as I've gotten through, there's no need of your staying here."

Quietly, she got to her feet. "Where should I go?"

"Back to the apartment. Wait for me there."

"All right," she agreed. She didn't say anything more; without a word, she turned and walked quickly from the lounge, back the way they had come, to the elevator.

As Cussick approached the inner office, he wondered grimly why the application had so readily been accepted. He was still mulling it over when four gray-uniformed workers rose up and confronted him. "Papers," one of them said, hand out. "Your papers, mister."

Cussick passed over the material the information clerk had returned to him; the workers examined it, examined him, and were satisfied. "Good enough," one said. "Go ahead."

A triple, interlocked section rolled noisily back, and Cussick found himself facing more offices and corridors. There were fewer people, here; his footsteps echoed in the dismal silence. For a time he walked along a wide carpeted hallway; nobody was in sight; nobody met him. An almost religious quiet hung over the corridor... there were no ornaments, no pictures or statues or bric-a-brac, only the carpet, the sheer walls, the ceiling. At the far end of the hall was a half-closed door. He reached it and halted uncertainly.

"Who's out there?" a voice demanded, a thin, metallic voice, heavy with fatigue, aggravated and querulous. For a moment he didn't recognize it; then identification came.

"Come in," the voice ordered irritably. "Don't stand out there in the hall."

He entered, his hand around the lethe-mirror. Behind a vast littered desk sat Jones, his face wrinkled with weariness and despair. The piled-up work virtually hid him from sight; a tired, defeated puppet struggling with a mountain far too large to be lifted.

"Hello, Cussick," Jones muttered, glancing up briefly. He reached out his claw-like hands and shoved aside some of the heaps of tapes and papers that covered his desk. Squinting nearsightedly, he waved at a chair. "Sit down."

Stunned, Cussick advanced toward the desk. Jones had expected him. Of course... he had hidden the obvious from himself. Long before he had seen the application—long before Cussick had dictated it—Jones had known who the "expert from astronomical research" was.

Behind Jones stood two giant, dull-faced, uniformed toughs, gripping machine guns, eyes blank and impassive—as silent and unmoving as statues. Cussick hesitated, fingered the lethe-mirror, started to hold it out.

"Come on," Jones snapped testily, extending his hand. In a single second he had seized the lethe-mirror; without even glancing at it he dropped it to the carpet and ground it to splinters under his heel. Folding his hands together in the center of the desk, he peered up at Cussick. "Will you sit down?" he grated. "I hate to look up. Sit down so we can talk." He groped around among the litter on his desk. "You smoke, don't you? I don't have any cigarettes here; I gave up smoking. It's unhealthy."

"I have my own," Cussick said, reaching unsteadily into his coat.

Fingers drumming restlessly on the desk, Jones said: "I haven't seen you in years, not since that day in the police offices. Work, decrees and whatnot all the time. It's a big job, this type of work. A lot of responsibility."

"Yes," Cussick agreed thickly.

"Pearson is dead, you know. Died this morning." A grotesque leer touched the withered face. "I kept him alive for awhile. He planned my murder, but I was waiting—a whole year ahead of time. Waiting for that assassin to show up. You picked a good time to come; I was just about to send for you. Not just you, of course; everybody in your class, the whole lot of you. And that stupid blonde who used to be your wife; you knew she joined us, didn't you? Of course you knew... she filled out this application. I recognize her chicken-tracks."

"Yes," Cussick repeated.

"A lot of sex-starved society females have come to us," Jones rambled on, face twitching, thin body quivering with nervous spasms. His voice was monotonous; the words ran together in a mumbled blur of fatigue. "A sort of substitute for adequate copulation, I suppose... this is a lifelong orgasm for them. Sometimes with tricks like your wife around, I get the feeling I'm running a cat house instead of a—"

From his coat, Cussick's hand brought out the gun. He was conscious of no decision; his hand moved on its own volition. In an instinctive, reflexive blur, he aimed and fired.

It was at the larger of the two bodyguards that he had aimed; in some dim way he had the idea that it was necessary to kill them first. But Jones, seeing the glint of metal, had suddenly jumped to his feet. Like a skinny, animated doll, he bounced between Cussick and the two guards; the explosive shell caught him directly above the right eye.

The two guards, paralyzed with disbelief, stood rooted to the spot, without even lifting their guns.

Cussick, too, was unable to stir. He stood holding the pistol, not firing at the guards, not being fired as in return. The body of Jones lay strewn across the littered desk.

Jones was dead. He had killed him; it was over.

It was impossible.