A Creed for the Third Millennium (9 page)

'No!'
barked Dr Chasen.

Dr Carriol smiled. 'Okay, okay! But phase
two will go ahead as originally planned, if only
because we are dealing with nine people, not just Moshe's three.'

'Would it help any to run our six through
Moshe's programs?' asked Dr Abraham.

'We could, yes. But I'd rather not. That
is leaving too much to chance and Moshe, no offence.'

'I take it phase two is human
investigation?' asked Dr Hemingway.

'Correct. No one has yet managed to
define what I call gut instinct, but I guess it's some kind of ostensibly
illogical human reaction to other human beings in human situations. So I've
always been of the opinion that in this particular exercise, where human emotion
is of paramount importance, there should be a period of time in which we can
personally observe or interview or test a small, select number of possibles.
Today is February first. I will call today the last day of phase one, and
tomorrow the first day of phase two. We have three months. May first must see
phase two of Operation Search completed.'

Creep creep went her hands across the
table, an unconscious mannerism that always had an uncomfortable effect on those
who watched. As if, independent of her mind, her hands could sniff after prey,
and weave webs of entrapment, and
see.

'As of tomorrow,' she went on, 'your
teams are disbanded. Only we in this room will have any knowledge of phase two,
so you will give out to your teams that Operation Search has achieved what it
set out to achieve without a phase two. And during the next three months you,
Sam, you, Millie, and I myself in lieu of Moshe, will undertake personal
investigation of the nine candidates. Three each. Sam will take on Millie's
three. Millie will take on Sam's three, and I will take on Moshe's three. So —
that's Dr Walking Horse, Dr Hastings and Professor Charnowski for Sam. And for
Millie we have Maestro Steinfeld, Dr Schneider and Mr Smith. I inherit Dr
Christian, Senator Hillier and Mayor d'Este. You are
experienced field investigators, so I need not enlarge upon the protocol
governing phase two. Tomorrow John will allow you to look at the files of your
three candidates, but you will not be permitted to remove those files from my
office, nor to take notes. Phase two is going to have to chug along on memory,
though of course you can ask to see the files at any time.'

She grew stern. 'I must remind you that
the top secret classification of Operation Search is even more in effect during
phase two than phase one. If any of these people tumble to the fact that he or
she is under investigation, we are in for a roasting, because most of these
people are important people in their own right, and some have real clout in this
town. You will proceed with the utmost caution. Is that understood?'

'We're not fools, Judith!' yapped Dr
Hemingway, stung.

'I know that, Millie. But I'd rather make
myself unpopular now for uttering words of warning than regretful later that I
didn't.'

Dr Abraham was frowning. 'Judith, this
disbanding of our teams is very abrupt! What am I going to tell my staff
tomorrow beyond the fact that they're out of a job overnight? They're all sharp
enough to have guessed about phase two, and I'm afraid it never occurred to me,
for one, that I would be stripped of my team. So I haven't prepared my staff for
this shock, and shock it's going to be.'

Dr Carriol raised her brows. 'Out of a
job is putting it a bit too strongly, Sam. They are all graded Environment data
people and will remain so. Actually they'll be going to Moshe to assist him on
his new project. If they want to. Otherwise they will be given the opportunity
to transfer to some other Environment project. Okay?'

He shrugged. 'Okay by me. But I'd
appreciate a written directive from you about it.'

This did not please her, but her answer
was as smoothly civil as always. 'Since written directives are Section Four
policy, Sam, that surely goes without saying.'

Dr Abraham saw the shadow of a sword
suddenly materialize above his head, and hastened to make amends. 'Thanks,
Judith. I'm sorry if I've offended you. It's a shock, that's all. When you work
with people for five solid years, you're a poor boss if you don't grow
protective of their interests.'

'Provided you also retain a measure of
detachment, Sam, I quite agree. I take it some of your people won't want to work
with Moshe?'

'No, no, it's not that!' He looked
depressed. 'As a matter of fact, I think all of them will be
delighted.'

'Then what are you worried
about?'

'Nothing.' He sighed, moved his hands
helplessly, hunched his body over. 'Nothing at all'

Dr Carriol looked at him with cold
speculation, but all she said was, 'Good!' Then she rose to her feet. 'I thank
you again, everyone. May I also wish you well? Moshe, report to me tomorrow
morning, okay? I've got something very special lined up for you, and believe me,
it's going to take everything you've got and everything your augmented team is
capable of giving you.'

Dr Chasen had not said one word because
he knew the chief of Section Four better than poor old bumbling Sam did. Judith
was a great chief in some respects, but it was wise not to get on the wrong side
of her. Her brain was so dominant that sometimes her heart was quite frozen by
the winds blowing off it. He was bitterly disappointed at being removed from
Operation Search; nor could any new project, no matter how alluring, remove the
desolation any scientist worth his oats must feel at being removed from his work
untimely. However, to argue would get him nowhere, and he was sensitive enough
to know that But the faint sourness of rebuff and
injury lingered in the conference room atmosphere, so the three investigators
trickled out sooner than would otherwise have been the case, leaving Dr Carriol
and John Wayne in sole possession of the field.

Dr Carriol looked at her watch. 'Mr
Magnus will still be in his office, no doubt, so I'd better go see him.' She
sighed, glancing at the thick block of used pages in her secretary's notebook.
'Poor John! Can you start transcribing right away?'

'No trouble,' he said, and began to
gather up all the file copies from the places where the Operation Search chiefs
had sat.

The Secretary for the Environment's
offices were down the same hall as the executive conference room, which he too
used when necessity demanded.

The big anteroom which served as a
reception and waiting area was deserted, for it was well after five; from its
sides it opened through discreetly closed doors into the typing pools, the
photocopying rooms, ancillary offices, and conveniences which the Secretary
commanded entirely for his own work. The door ahead of the two glass entrance
doors led into the spacious office of the Secretary's private secretary, who was
still there when Dr Judith Carriol strolled in. Mrs Helena Taverner's extramural
life was the object of considerable Departmental curiosity, since she seemed to
spend all her time dancing devoted and largely thankless attendance upon Harold
Magnus; some said she was divorced, others that she was widowed, yet others that
Mr Taverner had never existed at all.

'Why, hello, Dr Carriol. Nice to see you.
Go right in, he's been hoping you'd come. Shall I send in coffee?'

'Please, Mrs Taverner.'

Harold Magnus sat behind his gigantic
walnut desk, which was his own personal property, his
big leather chair swung away from the entrance door to face the window. Through
this he could watch, when he so chose, the small amount of traffic that
proceeded up and down K Street. Since darkness had fallen and there was no rain
to coat the road with a little gloss from reflected lights, it was a dimmer
version of his own office and himself that he was watching so intently. But as
the door closed he rotated a full circle and a half and ended facing Dr Judith
Carriol.

'How did it go?' he demanded.

'In a minute, after Mrs Taverner brings
coffee.'

His brows mated. 'Dammit, woman, I am far
too eager to find out how things went to bother with food or drink!'

'So you say now. But two minutes into it,
when I won't want to stop, you'll decide you're going to die without some form
of sustenance,' she said, not in the indulgent tones of a female in mild
defiance of entrenched power, but matter-of-factly. For the true situation was
the reverse; hers was the entrenched power, his the grace and favour of
political caprice. She sat down in a wide chair which stood in front of his desk
and to one side of its middle.

'You know, when I first met you, I made a
great mistake about you,' he said suddenly, as was his habit darting off down
what seemed an irrelevant sidetrack.

Dr Carriol was not fooled; this man's
irrelevancies were usually calculated. 'What mistake was that, Mr Magnus?' she
asked.

'I wondered whose bed had got you where
you were.'

She looked amused. 'What an old-fashioned
attitude!'

'Garbage!' he said vigorously. 'Times may
change, but you know and I know that there will always be a certain amount of
bed hopping when women manoeuvre for power.'

'Certain
women,' she
said.

'Exactly! And I thought you were that
kind of woman.'

'Why?'

'You looked the part. Oh, there are
plenty of very attractive women who don't use the bed to climb higher, but I've
never thought of you as attractive. I think of you as glamorous. And in my
experience — which is considerable! — glamour usually goes hand in hand with the
oblique approach.'

'But of course you've changed your mind
about me.'

'Of course! After one short conversation
with you, in fact.'

She settled into her chair more
comfortably. 'Why tell me this now?'

He looked derisive, but didn't
answer.

'I see. To keep me in my
place.'

'Perhaps.'

'It isn't necessary. I know my
place.'

'Good!'

Mrs Taverner came in bearing coffee and a
pair of fine decanters, one containing cognac, the other extremely rare
unblended Scotch whisky. 'Sun's way over the yardarm, Mr Magnus.'

'Thanks, Helena.' But he poured himself
coffee only, and nodded towards the tray. 'Help yourself, Dr Carriol'

He was a fat man, grossly so without
giving an impression of grossness; the sort of adiposity that said power rather
than self-indulgence, though he indulged himself mightily. His lips were thick,
nicely balancing his prawnlike eyebrows, and his sandy thatch of hair showed no
sign of thinning or greying despite his sixty-plus years. He had the tiny,
delicate hands and feet which so often went with his type of physique, so that
the hands resembled starfish and the feet fallen-down sections in his trouser
bottoms. His voice, as rich and full and round as
his paunch, was a melodious instrument he knew how to play with the aplomb of a
master, and did. Before Tibor Reece had appointed him to this most important of
all the Executive portfolios, he had been a famous legal advocate specializing
in cases with a bearing on the environment, and he had argued as persuasively on
behalf of those who sought to destroy it as he had on behalf of its champions.
This fact had made him an unpopular choice in many circles, but President Reece
had routed the opposition by observing with characteristic detachment that
surely Harold Magnus's hopping from one side of the fence to the other had given
him an unparalleled opportunity to taste the grass in both yards. His job as
Secretary for the Environment was to ensure that the policies of his superior in
the White House were faithfully carried out by the Department, and because he
did largely confine his activities to this end, he was suffered with fairly good
grace by the permanent chiefs of the Department. Indeed, had he not dabbled in
things like secret passwords, they would probably have apostrophized him as the
best Secretary in Environment's short history. He had been in the job for the
seven years which had elapsed since Tibor Reece had been elected President of
the United States of America, and by now it was generally felt throughout the
Washington establishment that he would remain in Environment as long as Tibor
Reece remained in the White House. Since the Constitutional amendment of
Augustus Rome's time had never been repealed, and the election coming up in
November held out no hope for the opposition, that meant at least another five
years of Harold Magnus.

The Secretary studied Dr Judith Carriol,
who also chose to drink nothing stronger than coffee, without affection. He
could esteem her, and he did, but he could not like her. An ineffectual mother
followed by an ineffectual wife had not inspired him
with a high opinion of women, so he had never bothered to pursue his
acquaintance with the sex further, preferring to direct his marked sensual
proclivities towards food and drink. That this choice had seriously undermined
his health was something he flatly refused to admit, either to his doctor or to
himself.

Judith Carriol. Indisputably the
eminence grise
of Environment. By the time she had come to him five years
earlier with her plan called Operation Search worked out to the last predictable
detail and all its reasons for being meticulously tabulated, he already knew
enough of her to want to steer a wide berth around her whenever he could. She
set his teeth on edge; to be so brilliant, so cold, so awesomely efficient and
so freed from emotional fog just didn't agree with his conception of Woman. His
may have been an outdated attitude, it may have been an erroneous one; but all
that Judith Carriol was, that he knew her to be, sat so ill upon such a
glamorous, feminine-looking woman that she threw him into disorder. Afraid of
her was putting it too strongly. Wary of her was nearer the mark. Or so he told
himself.