Counter-Clock World (9 page)

I have about one chance in ten, he decided, of making this work. What will probably happen will be that both Lotta and I will have disappeared into the Library and never reemerged. Never seen again.

But just maybe, he thought, I owe this to her.

Once more he adjusted the controls of his weapon. Not kill any of them, he realized; I can’t conceivably get away with that—even if Lotta and I did get out, they’d hunt us, hound us, for the rest of our lives. Until we were back in the womb. And, he thought, I don’t think they’ll go for killing either of us . . . at least not now, not without some Council discussion; a formal decision, if what I know about the Erads is accurate, will have to be arrived at.

Okay, he said to himself. Here goes.

He opened the door and said, “Mrs. Hermes? You’re coming home.”

Soundlessly, without moving, the three of them, Lotta and Mavis McGuire and the tall, straw-like Erad with his ugly elongated face, stared at him.

The far door of the office had been left open, and from within four more Erads also peered. Everything had come to a stop. He had frozen the seven of them, suspended them and their activities out of time, just by his presence. By the big gray gun he held; the regulation police-issue mammoth revolver. He was a man with a gun, not a police officer, but he knew how to talk from behind his gun; he knew how to use it without using it.

Beckoning to the hunched-up little shape of Lotta Hermes he said, “Come over here.” She continued to stare blankly. “Come over here,” he repeated in exactly the same tone; he made it unvarying. “I want you,” he told her, “to come and stand over by me.”

He waited and then, all at once, she rose and made her way over to him, to stand by him. No one interfered; no one even spoke.

The knowledge of wrong-doing—and the recognition of being caught at it—had on most people a paralyzing effect. As long, he thought, as I can keep about me the archetype of authority. Even Erads, he thought, are not exempt. Maybe.

“I’ve seen you before,” Mavis McGuire said. “You’re a police officer.”

“No,” he said. “You’ve never seen me before.” He took hold of Lotta’s wrist and said to her, “Go upstairs to the roof field and wait in my aircar. Make sure you get the right one; it’s parked over to the left as you come out of the stairwell.” As she started obediently off he said, “Feel the hood; the motor’s warm. You can tell by that.”

One of the Erads within the inner office fired at him with what he recognized as an illegal pelfrag pistol, very small, with one single fragmenting shot.

The slug, without fragmenting, hit him in the foot. Evidently the ammunition was old, and the pistol probably had never been used; its owner, the Erad, probably did not know how to clean and maintain a gun, and the rim-fire hammer had missed the inner charge.

Tinbane swiftly fired nine random shots, sweeping both offices. He squeezed the trigger of his service revolver until the rooms had become opaque with ricocheting pellets, all of them traveling at a velocity which would stun or inflict a minor injury or blind—he fired once more as he limped into the hall and then, as best he could, he hopped and hobbled up the hall to the stairs, cursing the wound in his foot, feeling the pain and the malfunctioning; he could hardly make any time at all and he felt them behind him, doing something—food, he thought savagely; what a place to be hit. As the stair door swung shut behind him a pelfrag slug detonated in the hall behind him; the glass window of the door shattered and shards slashed at his neck and back and arms. But he continued on, up the stairs. At the top of the stairs, at roof level, he fired his remaining shot back down the stairs, filling the well with rebounding pellets, enough to stop anyone, unless the person was willing to risk blindness, and then he dragged himself and his injured foot to his prowl car.

Beside the car, not inside it, he found Lotta Hermes; she looked up into his face speechlessly and he opened the car door for her and got her inside. “Lock your door,” he said, and limped to the driver’s side, also getting in, also locking his door. Now a group of Erads had come out onto the roof, but they milled in confusion, some evidently wanting to try one good, planned shot at the prowl car, some wanting to follow in their own cars, some possibly willing to give up.

He took off, gained altitude, accelerated as rapidly as the beefed-up engine which the police department used could manage, and then lifted his microphone and said to the dispatching officer at his substation, “I’m on my way to Peralta General and I’d like another car waiting for me in the parking lot, just in case.”

“Okay, 403,” the dispatcher acknowledged. “301,” he instructed, “join 403 at Peralta General.” To Tinbane he said, “Aren’t you off duty, 403?”

Tinbane said, “I ran into some trouble on my way home.” His foot throbbed and he felt fatigue, general and all-embracing. I’ll be laid up for a week, he said to himself as he reached gingerly down to unlace the shoe on his injured foot. Well, there goes the assignment regarding being a bodyguard for Ray Roberts.

Seeing him fussing with his shoe, Lotta said, “Are you hurt?”

“We’re lucky,” he said. “They were armed after all. But they’re not used to a showdown.” Handing her the vidphone receiver, he said, “Dial your husband at the vitarium; I told him I’d let him know when I had you out of there.”

“No,” Lotta said.

“Why not?”

Lotta said, “He sent me there.”

Shrugging, Tinbane said, “I guess that’s true enough.” He felt too foolish from his injury to argue; anyhow it was so. “But I could have given you the info,” he said. “That’s what’s rotten about me, about what I did. You might as well blame me as him.”

“But you got me out,” Lotta said.

That, too, was true; he had to agree.

Reaching, Lotta hesitantly touched his cheek, his ear; she examined his face with her fingers, as if she were blind.

“What’s that mean?” he said.

Lotta said, “I’m grateful. I always will be. I don’t think they would ever have let me go. It was as if they enjoyed it, as if my knowing about the Anarch was just a—pretext.”

“Very probably,” he murmured.

“I love you,” Lotta said.

Startled, he turned to look at her; the girl’s expression was calm, almost peaceful. As if she had resolved some major indecision.

He thought he knew what it was. And his gladness knew no bounds; he was thoroughly elated—more so than in his whole life.

As they drove on toward Peralta General she continued to touch him, as if never intending to let go. He at last took hold of her hand, squeezed. “Cheer up,” he said. “You won’t have to go back there.”

“Maybe I will,” she said. “Maybe Seb will tell me to.”

“Tell him to go to hell,” Tinbane said.

Lotta said, “I want you to tell him for me; I want you to talk for me. You talked to those Erads and Mrs. McGuire, you made them do what you ordered them to do. Nobody else has ever stood up for me. Not in my whole life. Not like that, the way you did it.”

Putting his arm around her he held her against him. She seemed, now, very happy. And relieved. My god, he thought, this is a big thing she’s done, bigger than what
I
did; she’s transferred her dependency from Sebastian Hermes to me. Because of a single incident.

I’ve got her, he realized. Entirely away from him;
I swung it!

10

Thus God, considered not in Himself but as the cause
of all things, has three aspects: He is, He is wise, and
He lives.

—Erigena

The vidphone at the Flask of Hermes Vitarium rang; expecting the call-back from Officer Joe Tinbane, Sebastian answered it.

On the screen Lotta’s, not Tinbane’s, face appeared. “How are you?” she asked wanly, with a peculiar mechanical listlessness which he had never heard in her voice before.

“I’m fine,” he said, violently relieved to see her. “But that’s not important; how are you? Did he get you away from the Library? I guess he did. Were they actually trying to keep you there?”

“They were,” she said, still listlessly. “How’s the Anarch?” she asked. “Did he come back to life yet?”

Sebastian started to say, We dug him up. We revived him. But instead he took pause; he remembered the call from Italy. “Whom, specifically, did you tell about the Anarch?” he asked. “I want you to remember everyone you told.”

“I’m sorry you’re mad at me,” Lotta said, still listlessly, as if reading the words from a piece of paper held in front of her. “I told Joe Tinbane and I told Mr. Appleford at the Library and that’s all I told. What I called for is to tell you that I’m okay; I got out of the Library . . . Joe Tinbane got me out. We’re at the hospital; they’re removing a bullet from his foot. It isn’t serious but he says it hurts. And he’ll undoubtedly be laid up for a few weeks. Sebastian?”

“Yes?” He wondered if she, like Tinbane, had been hurt; he felt his heart speed up in agitation; he felt, now, as concerned as before—actually more so. There was a subtle, unverbalized ominousness in her voice. “Tell me!” he said, urgently.

Lotta said, “Sebastian, you didn’t come and get me out of there. Even after I didn’t meet you at the store as we planned. You must have been too busy; I guess you have the Anarch to think of.” Tears, abruptly, filled her eyes; as usual, she made no effort to wipe them away; she cried soundlessly, like a child. Without hiding her face.

“Goddam it,” he said, in a frenzy. “What is it?”

“I can’t,” she wept.

“Can’t what? Can’t you tell me? I’ll get over to the hospital; which hospital is it? Where are you, Lotta? Goddam it; stop crying and say.”

“Do you love me?”

“Yes!”

Lotta said, “I still love you, Seb. But I have to leave you. For a while at least. Until I feel better.”

“Leave me and go where?” he demanded.

Her crying had ceased; her swimming eyes confronted him with unusual defiance. “I’m not going to say. I’ll write to you; I’ll figure out exactly how to tell you and I’ll put it all in a letter.” She added, “I can’t talk over the phone; I feel so conspicuous. Hello.”

“Oh my god,” he said, unbelievingly.

“Hello, Sebastian,” Lotta said, and hung up; the image of her pinched small face vanished.

Beside Sebastian, R.C. Buckley appeared, apologetically. “Sorry to bother you at a time like this,” he mumbled, “but there’s someone asking for you. At the front door.”

“We’re closed!” Sebastian said savagely.

“She’s a buyer. You said never to turn away a buyer, even after six P.M. That’s your philosophy.”

Sebastian grated, “If she’s a customer, take care of her; you’re our salesman.”

“She asked for you; she won’t talk to anyone else.”

“I feel like killing myself,” Sebastian said to him. “Something terrible must have happened in the Library; I’ll probably never find out what it was—she’ll never be able to put it into words.” Lotta was so bad with words, he thought. Too many, too few, the wrong ones or to the wrong person; always miscommunicating in one way or another. “If I had a gun,” he said, “I would kill myself.” He got out his handkerchief and blew his nose. “You heard what Lotta said. I let her so badly down she left me. Who’s this customer?”

“She says her name—” R.C. Buckley examined his jotting. “Miss Ann Fisher. Know her?”

“No.” Sebastian walked toward the front of the store, out of the work area and into the reception lounge with its moderately modern chairs, carpet, and magazines. In one of the chairs sat a well-dressed young woman with smartly clipped, fashionable short black hair. He paused, collecting his wits and considering her. The girl had lovely slim legs; he could not help noticing that. Class, he thought. This girl really has it; even in her earrings. And in the very slight make-up; all the tints of her eyes and lashes and lips seemed her own very intense natural coloration. Her eyes, he saw, were blue, unusual for a girl with black hair.

“Goodbye,” she said, and smiled a warm, crinkly smile; her face was extraordinarily mobile; when she smiled her eyes danced with light, and she showed perfect, regular teeth, with mischievous little incisors; he found himself fascinated by her rows of teeth.

“I’m Sebastian Hermes,” he said.

Rising, putting aside her magazine, Miss Fisher said, “You have a Mrs. Tilly M. Benton in your catalog. In the most recent daily supplement.” She fumbled with her smart shiny purse, brought out the addenda ad which the Flask of Hermes Vitarium had placed in that day’s evening ’papes. She seemed to be a determined, pert young woman . . . a titanic contrast, he could not help noticing, from Lotta’s indecisive-ness, which he had over a long period of time been forced to accustom himself to.

“Technically,” he said, “we’re closed for the day. Mrs. Benton is of course not here; we have her in a hospital bed, recuperating. We’ll be glad to take you over there tomorrow. Are you a relative?”

“She’s my great-aunt,” Ann Fisher said, with a kind of philosophical exasperation, as if one had regularly to be ready to cope with reborn elderly relatives. “Oh, I’m so damn glad you heard her calling,” she went on. “We kept visiting the cemetery, hoping we’d hear her voice, but it
always
—” She made a wry face. “Always seems to happen at weird hours.”

“True,” he agreed. That was indeed part of the problem. He looked at his watch; it was, roughly, sogum time; normally he would want to be at home with Lotta. But Lotta wasn’t there. And anyhow he wanted more or less to keep in the vicinity of the store, pending these new, critical hours of life for the Anarch. “I guess I could take you briefly to the hospital tonight,” he began, but Miss Fisher interrupted him.

“Oh no; thanks, but
forget
it. I’m tired. I’ve been working all day long and so have you.” Astonishingly, she reached out her smooth, tapered hand and patted his, meanwhile beaming sunlike, radiant understanding, as if she knew him intimately. “I just want to make sure that the State of California doesn’t make her its ward, and turn her over to one of those awful public rest homes for the old-born. We can take her; we have the money, my brother Jim and I.” Miss Fisher examined her wristwatch; he saw that her wrist was lightly, enticingly freckled; more coloration. “I’ve just got to get some sogum into me,” she said. “I’m about to faint. Is there a good sogum palace near here?”

“Down the street,” he said. And once again he thought of Lotta, of the emptiness at home, so bewildering and abrupt; who was she with? Tinbane, evidently; Joe Tinbane had rescued her and—well, it probably was Tinbane; that made sense. In a way he hoped so. Tinbane was a good man. Thinking of Lotta and Tinbane, both of them young, both nearly the same age, he felt fatherly; perversely, he wished her luck, but primarily he wished her back. Meanwhile . . .

“I’ll treat you,” Miss Fisher said. “I just got paid today; if I don’t spend these inflation bills they won’t be worth anything tomorrow anyhow. And you look tired.” She scrutinized him, and it was a different sort of scrutiny; Lotta had always searched to discern whether he was pleased with her, mad at her, in love with her, not in love with her; Miss Fisher seemed to be judging what he was, not how he felt. As if, he thought, she has the power—or anyhow the ability—to determine whether I’m a man. Or just playing at being a man.

“Okay,” he said, surprising himself. “But first I have to close up in the back.” He indicated one of the store’s reasonably modern chairs. “You wait here; I’ll be back.”

“And we can talk about Mrs. Tilly M. Benton,” Miss Fisher said, emitting her approving smile.

He made his way back to the work area of the store, carefully closing the door so that Miss Fisher could not see; having brought the Anarch here they had been forced to become adept at this, on short notice.

“How is he?” he asked Dr. Sign. A bed had been fashioned, pro tem. In it lay the Anarch, small, dry, everything about him gray or black, his eyes fixed apparently on nothing; he seemed content, and Dr. Sign still looked pleased.

“Healing rapidly,” Dr. Sign said. He led Sebastian over to one side, then, out of the Anarch’s hearing. “He asked for a ’pape and I gave him one, the evening edition with our ad in it. He’s been reading about Ray Roberts.”

“What’s he say about Roberts?” Sebastian asked, chewing his lip. “Is he afraid of him? Or does he consider Roberts one of those ‘friends’ he mentioned?”

Dr. Sign said, “The Anarch has never heard of Ray Roberts. According to all the public relations material released by Roberts, he was handpicked by the Anarch to succeed him. This appears not to be true. Not unless—” His voice dimmed to a whisper. “There may be brain damage, you realize. I’ve run an EEG now for some time, and find nothing out of order. But—let’s call it amnesia. From the rebirth shock. Anyhow, he’s puzzled about Udi; not what it is—he remembers founding it—but what it’s up to.”

Going over to the bed, Sebastian said, “What can I tell you? That you’d like to know?”

The old brown eyes, with so much hidden wisdom in them, so much experience, fastened on him. “I see that, like all other religions, mine has become a hallowed institution. Do you approve of it?”

Taken aback, Sebastian said, “I—don’t think I’m in a position to judge. It has its followers. It’s still a vital force.”

“And Mr. Roberts?” The old eyes were keen.

Sebastian said, “Opinions differ.”

“Does he believe Udi is for both whites and colored?”

“He—tends to restrict it to colored.”

The eyebrows knitted; the Anarch said nothing, but he no longer looked tranquil. “If I ask you an embarrassing question,” the Anarch said, “will you kindly give me a truthful answer? No matter how unpleasant it might be?”

“Yes,” Sebastian said, preparing himself.

The Anarch said, “Has Udi become a circus?”

“Some people think so.”

“Has Mr. Roberts made efforts to locate me?”

“Possibly.” His answer was guarded; this was explosive.

“Have you notified him of my—rebirth?”

“No,” Sebastian said. After a pause he said, “Generally, an old-born is kept in a hospital for a time, and the vitarium solicits bids on him from relatives and friends. Or, if he’s a public figure—”

“If he has no relatives or friends,” the Anarch said, “and he is
not
a public figure, is he put to death again?”

“He’s made a ward of the state. But in your case, obviously you—”

“I would like you to ask Mr. Roberts to come here,” the Anarch said in his hoarse, dry voice. “Since he will be in California on a pilg it won’t be much trouble for him.”

Sebastian pondered. And then he said, “I would prefer that you let us handle your sale. We’re experts. Your Mightiness. We do nothing but this. I would prefer not to bring Ray Roberts here, or in fact give him any information about you. He’s not the buyer we have in mind.”

“Do you want to give me the reason?” The wise eyes again fastened on him. “Won’t the Uditi care to put up the money?”

“It’s not a matter of that,” Sebastian said. He made a covert signal to Dr. Sign, who immediately came over.

“I think you should rest, Anarch,” Dr. Sign said.

“I’ll talk to you again later,” Sebastian said to the Anarch. “I’m going out for a pipeful of sogum, but I’ll be back again this evening.” He left the work area and the Anarch, carefully maneuvered the door open and shut; however, Miss Fisher sat reading, engrossed.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Sebastian said.

She glanced up, smiled, slid gracefully to her feet, stood facing him; she was relatively tall and very slender with extremely meager breasts; her figure, in fact, was that of a supple adolescent. But her face was sharp-etched and mature, with strong features. And again he thought, This is one of the best-dressed women I have ever seen. And clothes had never impressed him before.

After they had imbibed sogum they wandered along the evening street, looking in store windows, saying very little, glancing cautiously at each other every now and then. Sebastian Hermes had a problem. He still intended to return to his vitarium, to talk further with the Anarch, but he could not very well do it until he had parted company with Miss Fisher.

Miss Fisher, however, did not seem inclined toward the normal, customary moment of saying hello. He wondered why; as time passed it seemed more and more strange.

All at once, as they stood studying a window display of furniture made from Martian wobwood, Miss Fisher said, “What day is this? The eighth?”

“The ninth,” Sebastian said.

“Are you married?”

He thought briefly; one had to calculate carefully in answer to this question. “Technically,” he said. “Lotta and I are separated.” It was true. Technically.

“The reason I ask,” Miss Fisher said, starting on, “is that I have a problem.” She sighed.

It was emerging, now. Her reason for sticking so close to him. He glanced sidelong at her, once again noted her attractiveness, marveled at the amount of communication already achieved between them, and said, “Tell me. Maybe I can help.”

“Well, see . . . just about nine months ago, there was this lovely little baby, named Arnold Oxnard Ford. You get the situation?”

“Yes,” he said.

“He was so darling.” Her lips pursed, babytalk-wise, motherly. “And he was there in that children’s ward, in the hospital, and he was searching for a womb, and I was doing volunteer work of various kinds for the city of San Bernardino, and I was getting really terribly sick of it, the volunteer work, and I thought, Gee wouldn’t it be wonderful to have a sweet little creature like Arnold Oxnard Ford inside my tummy.” She patted her flat stomach as they walked aimlessly along. “So I went to the nurse in charge of the ward and I said, Could I apply for Arnold Oxnard Ford? And she said, Yes, you look healthy, and I said I was, and she said, It’s just about time for him; he’ll have to go into a womb—he was in an incubator already—and I signed the papers, and—” She smiled at Sebastian. “I got him. Nine months of having him day by day become more and more a part of me; it’s a marvelous feeling— you have no idea how it feels to sense another creature, one whom you love, merging molecule by molecule with your own molecules. Every month I had an examination and an X ray, and it was working out fine. Now, of course, it’s really over.”