Counter-Clock World (13 page)

14

But it hath not yet attained tomorrow and hath lost
yesterday. And you live no more in this day’s life than
in that movable and transitory moment.

—Boethius

The TV news announcer said, “On the local scene it seemed as if all Los Angeles turned out tonight to stare at or cheer for the head of the Faith of Udi, his Mightiness Ray Roberts, who touched down at the Los Angeles airport shortly before seven o’clock this evening. On hand to meet him was Mayor Sam Parks of Los Angeles, and, as a special rep of the Governor’s Office in Sacramento, Judd Asman.” The TV screen showed a great, dense-packed throng of people, many of them howling and waving, others carrying banners with hand-lettered slogans ranging from GO HOME to WELCOME. In general, the people appeared good-natured.

A big event in our meager, paltry lives, Sebastian thought acidly.

“His Mightiness,” the announcer continued, “will be whisked by motorcade to Dodger Stadium, where, under the lights, he will deliver a speech to the packed crowd of spectators, mostly his supporters, but not a few of the curious, the just plain interested; this marks the first time in a decade that a major religious leader has visited Los Angeles, and hearkens back to the good old days when Los Angeles was one of the religious capitals of the world.” To his companion announcer, the announcer said, “Wouldn’t you say, Chic, that the festive, exuberant atmosphere of Dodger Stadium is reminiscent of the days of Festus Crumb and Harold Agee, back in the ’80s?”

“Yes I would, Don,” Chic said. “With one difference. The crowds which greeted Festus Crumb and to a certain extent Harold Agee had a more militant atmosphere about them; these four million people are here at Dodger Stadium and at the airport for a good time and to see someone famous, someone who delivers a dramatic, notable speech. They’ve watched him on TV, but somehow this is not the same.”

The motorcade had now begun its trip from the airport to Dodger Stadium; all along the way people could be made out. Idiots, Sebastian thought. Watching that galoomf when the real religious figure is again alive and back with us. Even though the Library has him.

“Of course in seeing Ray Roberts,” Chic the announcer said, “one can’t help but be reminded of his predecessor, the Anarch Peak.”

“Isn’t there some talk, Chic, about an imminent return of the Anarch to life?” Don asked. “And a belief current among many that Ray Roberts is here principally to visit with the recently old-born Anarch and perhaps persuade him to return to the Free Negro Municipality?”

“There has been such speculation,” Chic said. “And also not a little speculation as to whether it would be in the best interests of Udi—or rather would Ray Roberts consider it in the best interests of Udi—for the Anarch to reappear just at this time. Some think Roberts might try to stall the Anarch’s return, if such indeed does occur, as many apparently think.” There was temporary silence; the screen still showed the motorcade.

The announcer at the TV station cut back in and said, “Briefly, while we’re waiting for Ray Roberts to reach Dodger Stadium, a review of other local news. A Los Angeles police officer, Joseph Tinbane, has been found slain at the Happy Holiday Motel in San Fernando, and the police are speculating that it might be the work of religious fanatics. Other guests at the motel reported seeing a woman in the company of Officer Tinbane at the nearby sogum palace, earlier this evening, but if she exists she has disappeared. More on this, including an interview with the motel owner, during the eleven o’clock news. Floods in the northern hills near—”

Sebastian shut the TV set off. “Christ,” he said to the robot, once more Carl Junior. “They’ve got Lotta and they killed Tinbane.” His warning hadn’t reached him; it had been futile. Hopeless, he thought as he found a place to sit; he crouched with his head in his hands, staring down at the floor. There’s nothing I can do. If they could wipe out a professional like Tinbane they’d have no trouble with me.

“It seems almost impossible,” the robot said, “to penetrate the Library. Our efforts to seed a nest of miniaturized robots in Section B dismally failed. We do not know what else to do. If we had someone sympathetic working there—” The robot pondered. “We hoped that Doug Appleford might cooperate; he appeared to be the most reasonable of the librarians. But in that we were disappointed: it was he who expelled our nest.” It added, “Turn the TV on again, please; I wish to watch the motorcade.”

He gestured. “You turn it on.” He did not have the energy to get to his feet again.

The robot turned the TV set back on, and once again Chic and Don held forth.

“. . . and a good number of whites, too,” Don was saying. “So this has turned out to be, as His Mightiness promised, a bi-racial event, although, as we observed shortly ago, Negroes outnumber whites by a ratio of—I’d estimate five to one. What estimate would you give, Chic?”

“I find that about right, Don,” Chic said. “Yes, five colored to each—”

Giacometti said, “We must get someone sympathetic into the Library. On its staff.” He plucked, scowling, at his lower lip. “Otherwise the Anarch will never emerge again.”

“Lotta,” Sebastian said. Her, too.

“That is of considerably lesser importance,” the robot said. “Although to you subjectively, Mr. Hermes, it undoubtedly looms large.” To Giacometti it said, “Can the Rome party be of any use in forging credentials which would admit one of us to the Library? I understand your people are very good at that.”

Sardonically, Giacometti said, “Our reputation is undeserved.”

“Given time,” Carl Junior ruminated, “we could construct a simulacrum robot resembling, for example, Miss Ann Fisher. But that would take weeks. Perhaps, Mr. Giacometti, if we pool our resources, we can shoot our way into the Library.”

“My principal does not operate on that basis,” Giacometti said. And that was that. His tone was flat and final.

To the robot, Sebastian said, “Ask Ray Roberts what I can do. To get into the Library.”

“At this moment His Mightiness—”

“Ask him!”

“All right.” The robot nodded and was silent for several minutes. Sebastian and Giacometti waited. At last the robot spoke up again, its tone now firm. “You are to go to Section B of the Library,” it said. “You are to ask to see Mr. Douglas Appleford. Would he know you on sight, Mr. Hermes?”

“No,” Sebastian said.

“You are to say,” the robot said, “that a Miss Charise McFadden has sent you. Your name will be Lance Arbuthnot and you have written a demented thesis on the psychogenic origins of death by meteor-strike. You are a crank, originally from the F.N.M., but expelled because of your peculiar views. Mr. Appleford is expecting you; Charise McFadden has already sounded him as regards you and your queer thesis. He will not be glad to see you, but in line with his job he must.”

Sebastian said, “I don’t see that that gets me anywhere.”

“It will provide a cover,” the robot said, “and a pretext. Your comings and goings, your presence in the Library, will be understandable. It is common for crank inventors to hang around Section B; Appleford is accustomed to their presence. Mr. Giacometti.” It turned its attentions toward the advocate of the Rome principal. “Will you and your people cooperate with Udi in preparing Mr. Hermes a survival kit for use within the Library? Our combined resources are required.”

After a thoughtful pause Giacometti nodded. “I think we can assist. Providing nothing destructive to human life is involved.”

“Mr. Hermes will only be operating defensively,” the robot said. “No aggressive program is envisioned. Offensive action on the part of one man against the Library is vainglorious. It could never succeed.”

Sebastian said, “What if Lance Arbuthnot actually shows up?”

“There is no ‘Lance Arbuthnot,’” the robot said succinctly. “Miss McFadden is one of the Uditi; her request to Mr. Appleford was a ploy on our part from the beginning. It stems, in fact, from the teeming, fertile mind of Ray Roberts himself. We even have prepared his hokey thesis on psychosomatic factors in death by meteor-strike; tomorrow it will be delivered, bright and early, to your conapt door. By special Udi messenger.” The robot beamed.

On the TV screen Don was saying, “. . . at least. There has been a very substantial turnout here at Dodger Stadium considering the weather. Oh, we understand His Mightiness, Ray Roberts, is expected to put in his appearance any moment.” The crowd noises, muted until now, all at once surged up deafeningly. “Mr. Roberts is emerging from the visitors’ dugout,” Don’s voice could be heard saying. “Let’s have a close-up of him; I think we can catch him with our camera.” The camera zoomed in, and on the screen four figures, marching across the infield toward the improvised lectern, could be discerned.

“I want absolute silence in this room,” the robot said, “while Mr. Roberts is speaking.”

“Can you see what he’s doing now, Don?” Chic was asking.

“He seems to be blessing those gathered at the lectern,” Don answered. “He’s waving his hands in the direction of their heads, as if shaking holy water at them. Yes, he is blessing them; they’re all kneeling, now.” The crowd continued to yell.

Sebastian said to the robot, “Then there’s nothing we can do tonight. Toward getting into the Library.”

“We must wait until it reopens tomorrow morning,” the robot confirmed. Now it raised its finger to its lip in a shushing motion.

Standing before the microphones, Ray Roberts surveyed the crowd.

His Mightiness was a slightly built man, Sebastian observed. Quite delicate, with a bird-cage chest, slender arms—and unusually large hands. His eyes cast a penetrating brilliance; they blazed intensely as he sized up the audience before which he now spoke. Roberts wore a simple dark robe and a skullcap, and, on his right hand, a ring. One ring to rule them all, he thought, remembering his Tolkien. One ring to find them. One ring to—how did it go?—bring them all and in the darkness bind them. In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie. The ring of earthly power, he thought. Like that fashioned from the Rheingold, carrying a curse with it, to whoever put it on. Maybe the operation of the curse, he conjectured, is manifest in the Library’s seizing the Anarch.

“Sum tu,”
Ray Roberts said, raising his hands. “I am you and you are I. Distinctions between and among us are illusory. What doo dat mean?, as the old Negro janitor asks in the ancient joke. It means—” His voice rose booming and echoing; he stared upward, his gaze fixed on a point in the sky beyond Dodger Stadium. “The Negro cannot be inferior to the white man because he
is
the white man. When the white man, in former times, did violence to the Negro he destroyed himself. Today, when a citizen of the Free Negro Municipality injures and molests a white, he, too, is injuring and molesting himself. I say to you: strike not the ear of the Roman soldier off; it will fall, like a dead leaf, of its own accord.”

The crowd roared its cheers.

Going into his kitchen, Sebastian lit a cigar butt, puffed some angry smoke into it, rapidly. It grew longer. Maybe Bob Lindy could get me into the Library tonight, he said to himself. Lindy has an ingenious mind; he can do anything mechanical, or electrical. Or R. C. Buckley; he can talk his way in anywhere, any time. My own staff, he thought. I ought to be depending on them, not on Udi. Even if Udi does possess a prearranged plan all ready to go into gear.

“I am reminded,” Roberts was expostulating in the living room, “of the little old lady who had been recently old-born and whose greatest fear had been that, when they excavated her, they would find her improperly clothed.” The audience chuckled. “But neurotic fears,” Roberts continued, now somberly, “can destroy a person and a nation. The neurotic fear by Nazi Germany of a two-front war—” He droned on; Sebastian ceased listening.

Maybe I’ll have to accept the robot’s method, he said to himself, and wait until tomorrow. Joe Tinbane shot his way in, got her, and shot his way out, and what good did it do? Tinbane is dead and Lotta is once more inside the Library; nothing got accomplished.

The Library, he reflected,
must be dealt with in a certain
way
—a way customary and familiar to them. Udi is right; I must be accepted voluntarily into the Library.

But how, when I get in there, he asked himself, can I keep from running amuck? When I actually face them . . . the strain will be overwhelming. Enormous. And I will have to sit there chatting with Appleford, about a deranged pseudo-manuscript—

He returned to the living room. Over the din of Ray Roberts’ tirade he yelled at the robot, “I can’t do it!”

The robot, annoyed, cupped its ear.

“I’m getting into the Library tonight,” Sebastian yelled, but the robot paid no attention to him; its head had swiveled back and once more it was drinking up the noise from the TV set.

Giacometti rose, took him by the arm, and led him back to the kitchen. “In this case the Uditi are right. This must be done slowly, bit by bit; we—especially you yourself—must be patient. You’ll simply get yourself killed, like the police officer. It all must be—” He gestured. “Indirect. Even—tactfully. You see?” He studied Sebastian’s face.

“Tonight,” Sebastian said. “I’m going there now.”

“You will go, but you won’t come back.”

Setting down his completed cigar, Sebastian said, “Hello. I’ll see you later; I’m leaving.”

“Don’t try to approach the Library! Don’t—” Giacometti’s words blended with the howl of the TV set, and then Sebastian shut the conapt door after him; he was outside, in the hall, in welcome silence.

For what seemed like hours he roamed the dark streets, hands deep in his trouser pockets, passing stores, passing houses that, as time progressed, became increasingly darkened until, at last, he glanced up at a block of residences which showed no light at all. Now no one passed him on the sidewalk; he was entirely alone.

All at once he found himself confronted by three members of Udi, two men and one young woman. Each wore the
sum tu
button; the girl had placed hers at the farthest projection of her right breast, like an enlarged, winking metal nipple.