A futuristic tale of an authoritarian society, and some very peculiar occurances.
Prologue
There's a theory in quantum mechanics that the universe, all of existence, is primarily idea; that, like the atom, being is more motion than substance. This theory proposes that the stuff of our four-dimensional existence (time and space) is a thought in the mind of God, that all is a thought in the mind of God.
One formulation of the theory holds that existence spawns multiple realities, that it tries on all the possibilities. The theory is commonly called the many-worlds interpretation. In this theory the diverse realities are separated from each other only by their degrees of resonance, by the frequencies at which their ideas vibrate. (It may be easier to imagine this magnitude of “worlds” if we think of them as ideas rather than our tendency on this particular planet—to think of things in terms of matter and place.)
In this conception of infinite variety, every time a man (or a nation) makes a critical decision, each occasion on which a major path along life's way is chosen, alternatives not selected are lived out in other worlds. From our perspective, we might call these ghost worlds, although people living in these places would call us the ghosts. (Or so the Everett, Wheeler, Graham physics proposal claims)
The humans in our ghost worlds each perceive themselves to be the original world, of course, just as each branch of a tree believes the trunk endures to serve its own slender thread. Like a tree, reality extends upward and outward, branching at each decision point, ever forming the intricate web of potential realities.
Once you grasp the multiple-worlds theory, you understand that somewhere in this scheme of things there’s a world in which the Allies lost the last World War, a place where the Twin Towers still stand in New York City, a planet where atomic decimation wiped out all living kind, and, of course, a world where, because of the fruition of certain inventions, men moved deep into the far heavens that still hold us captive.
In this notion of existence, where resonance rather than time and space is the true measure of diversity, our world hums along at its familiar rate while our shadow worlds manifest at their own unique vibrations. As one would expect, branches of reality that nestle close on the tree, those with frequency rates near our own, are closer to our own vision.
These neighboring branches spawn people and nations that look—almost—like our own. It is on one such branch that we find ourselves in this story, near but not quite at home. This drama takes place on an earth that is similar to ours. In some ways it’s more advanced. In others it may be less so.
BOOK I: THE EXCHANGE PROGRAM
“The memory hoop is down,” the cashier said in a nasal twang that made the words sound like they'd been strained through a sieve. “We're sorry for any inconvenience this may cause.” The memory hoop had been invented 10 years ago and had already become a common tool in modern life. Attached to the head of the inquirer like an electroencephalograph, the memory hoop could replay an event for the user, returning bits and pieces of lost memory. Husbands could remember what the wives had wanted for their birthdays. The time of tonight’s party could be retrieved. The machine had become part of normal consumption—at least when it was working.
“Downtime?” Rigel Danou let his fist thud against the bars of her cage. “Downtime again?”
She didn't even startle. “Police have the first available 900 hours booked for witnesses.” The enormous wad of chewy chum in her mouth should have made speech impossible.
Rigel Danou’s craggy face scowled in irritation. Too many people got special priority on the machine. Doctoral students like Rigel often found themselves at the end a long line. "Where’s the damned maintenance program? This thing never works when you need it.”
“The list for private bookings is already long,” she said. “We suggest you use your local hypnotist.” The cashier's eyes never raised from her comic book, repetition having long since removed any connection between utterance and attention.
“Hypnotist?” he said. "You gotta be kidding. Every damned one of them is on the take from the secret police.”
So far nobody had figured out how to snoop on the memory hoop; hence its popularity. Its direct connection with the user’s brain—so far—defied spying. Cramming his fists deep in his pockets, Rigel turned away while the cashier shrugged and slid the appointment book back into her cage. Without noticing the bus veering to miss him, he crossed the traffic circle.
Darn those technicians. Downtime: it seemed like the whole society was on downtime. And he had to remember Professor Henz's last words. Despite the discouraged droop to his shoulders, Rigel's six foot, two inch frame and long legs took him to the other side of the street in record time.
At Rigel's approach, Balfour Junez, his fellow student in political science, wiggled his sizeable rump off the cold metal bench where he had waited. With a few shakes Balfour freed his ham-sized thighs stuck to his trousers. “No luck?”
Rigel shook his head. "The hoop's on downtime again.”
“That blows it then, we'll never know what the professor was trying to tell you. Zands, Rigel, can't you remember any of it?”
Rigel furrowed his forehead. “It sounded so inconsequential at the time.”
“Maybe it was inconsequential. Maybe it was nothing at all.”
Rigel shook his head. “It was important all right.” Funny how the strange look in Cosmo's eye hadn't registered until later. “You're absolutely certain a fuzzy was on Henz's trail?”
“Look, my stepfather's the local Memser party boss," Balfour said. “These CIA birds have been to the house. I recognized the guy for certain.”
“But why would the Covert Intelligence Agency tail Cosmo Henz?”
Balfour shook his head in disbelief. "Come on, Rigel, you know Henz is up to his neck in the insurrection—you've heard his political science lectures.”
“Just because the prof is against the regime, doesn't mean he's involved in the underground,” Rigel said. "Look at us, we're against the Memsers, but. . . ”
Balfour held up a hand. "But we're here, and Professor Henz is gone. He missed all his classes today, and he doesn't answer his communicator.”
“We could go over to his apartment and check it out,” Rigel said.
“With the fuzzies on his case? You gotta be kidding.” Balfour stomped his feet against the crumbling sidewalk and crammed his hands up the sleeves of his ragged sweater for warmth. "Heck, we may be under suspicion already. Everybody knows we're part of Henz's inner circle. You can bet we're on the fuzzies' list of subversives.”
“Subversives?” Rigel said. "We've marched in a few demonstrations, that's all. It's a right guaranteed by the Constitution.”
“Yeah, but the Memsers have pretty well set the Constitution aside--or hadn't you noticed?”
“Okay, we'll wait and see," Rigel said, "but I feel guilty for not checking on him. It isn't like Henz to miss a class; he'd have left word. . . if he could.”
“Put your brain to it, Rigel, maybe that conversation will come back.”
“Nah, I need that memory jog. Blast the memory hoop.”
“Blast the president,” Balfour said. "If it weren't for him. . . Things used to work--before Waldo Memser and his stupid philosophy of the common man.”
“Nothing's going to work until we get Memser out of office,” Rigel said. "His brand of democracy has reduced everything to the lowest common denominator.”
“Yeah. With seniority the only qualification for technician repair jobs," Balfour said, "everything's grinding to a halt in a hurry.”
Rigel's brown eyes glowed with narcotizing political fervor, the excitement turning his features from craggy to Lincolnesque handsome. "We've got to defeat Memser--somehow.”
“Without Professor Henz? Without our leader?” Balfour shook his head.
“The whole darned society is drifting toward collapse,” Rigel said.
Balfour shook his head hard, then grabbed Rigel by the shoulders. "This is no time to theorize, concentrate on remembering what Henz said.”
The wind whipped Rigel's long hair down in his eyes as the March day failed to shift from tag-end-winter ominous to spring-crisp. His dark brows pulled together into a single furry line of concentration. “The tremor, the tremor in his hand as it rested on my sleeve, that much comes back. He was trying to sound casual.”
“Well, he certainly convinced you. I hope he was as successful with the CIA agents.”
“Don't rub it in.”
Balfour pulled his jacket closer to his body. “Look, I've gotta go. Call if anything comes back to you, but remember, don't say anything important over the communicator.” Balfour set off toward the campus.
Rigel loped down the street to the nearest escalator leading to the underground transportation facility. The station was dim and deserted, only one input terminal flashing a red signal indicating it was working. He plugged in his request for an autocar to the outskirts of Washington. Ten minutes later, a rickety old red number pulled up, and the automatic door creaked open. He squeezed into the tiny seat, folding his long legs up under his chin.
Just my luck to get a compact. Rigel set the car on automatic, rearranging his legs as best he could. Once again he tried to reconstruct the seemingly innocuous conversation with Cosmo Henz. What had the professor said? What was the carefully masked suggestion?
Try his neighborhood hypnotist? Not a chance. Everyone knew hypnotists took extra tokes from the fuzzies for repeating interesting conversations. And who could trust them not to slip in a posthypnotic suggestion here and there? No thanks, he'd wait for the hoop.
The car came to a jarring halt. Rigel extricated himself from behind the wheel, ignored the wobbly escalator to the first floor of his house and sprinted for the steps. There he jumped over a pothole-sized break in the red band of sidewalk and landed on the blue lane.
Head down, Rigel kept a wary eye on the tricolor fiasco of Memser's first term in office. Wide automated footpaths in red, white, and blue no longer separated runners, walkers, and strollers on the people's walkway. In most places there was now one speed or no movement at all. Now people wove paths among the three faded stripes searching for the one with the least cracks in the buckling cement. Without thinking, Rigel made the familiar lane switches as he approached the side of his house.
“Hey, Mister, are you all right?”
Rigel looked down to find a small boy staring up at him, an even smaller girl crouched at his side holding her jacks and stars. It’s them again. Why does that duo always give me the creeps? It was something about their eyes, those dark, serious eyes. And the way they played--as if they were going through the motions. Yeah, it had something to do with their eyes: the grownup thoughts he imagined going on behind them.
Nothing's going right today. First Cosmo Henz and now these creepy kids. Rigel turned on his heels and walked the final few yards to the escalator leading to his second-floor digs. He inserted the permit key, and a steady hum filled the air as the stairs sprang to life.
“I'm fine,” he yelled to the small somber boy as an afterthought.
A rush of warm air greeted Rigel as he opened the door; Shilene Valquist grinned up at him from the couch. “You're late.”
“Damn it, Shilene, owning the house doesn't give you the right to come and go in my apartment.”
“Is that any way to talk to your landlady? You're lucky I don't ask you to leave.”
“Hey, we have an agreement: I can rent the second floor for as long as I want."
“Nothing in writing, Rigel. Besides, when you make up your mind to marry me, you'll get the whole house back.”
Rigel swallowed hard. "Charelle and I are a team, and you know it."
“She's fat, Rigel, fat and freckled.”
“She's voluptuous.”
An amused chuckle escaped from Shilene's thin lips, the only minor flaw in her finely-sculpted face. Her high cheekbones set in a heart-shaped face were shown to best advantage by the ponytail pulling her heavy auburn hair straight back except for a fringe of bangs resting on the edge of arched brows. She rearranged herself on the couch so that her long legs showed to advantage under the skimpy white leather skirt, squaring her shoulders to thrust the high breasts further out in the fuzzy red sweater.
“You'll come around, Rigel, you'll see. Anyway, what makes you so late tonight?”
“What are you, my mother?”
Her green eyes sparkled and a laugh escaped her lips. "That's not the role I have in mind.” She left off her posing, walked over to where Rigel stood and ran a skilled finger down his body stopping just beneath his belt buckle.
“Meanwhile. . .” She moved her lips a scant inch from his. "I've got the makings for a fabulous dinner. I picked up never-mule steaks on the black market. You can char them while I make a salad.”
“Did it ever occur to you that I might have other plans?”
“Not now you don't. Charelle called--she's working late tonight.”
“You answered my communicator? In my apartment?"
“Don’t be such a prude. Turn on some mood music and follow me to your kitchen.”
“I hate animal flesh, especially that meat produced in the biolabs.”
His fingers hesitated over the read-out plate on the sound system behind the couch--second finger for jazz, third for romantic ballads. He lowered his second finger. Why did he let Shilene intimidate him? If only he hadn't sold her the house when his parents died. Rigel gave a long sigh and followed her into the kitchen.
The door to the small stuffy apartment slammed shut behind Sygfred Pernol, Director of the Covert Intelligence Agency. Argis Becor looked up from where he squatted on the floor, gave a grunt of recognition and went back to examining the corpse. The director took a quick glance over Becor's shoulder, then took off his kid gloves and slapped them against his hand. "Argis, I want action on this. I want to know who did it and why--and I want to know it fast.”
Argis Becor, still on his haunches beside the body, grunted again.
“This Cosmo Henz was on the top of our list for silent extermination.” Sygfred Pernol sniffed the air and gave the body a disdainful prod with the toe of his imported snake-skin loafer.
“Yeah, quite a coincidence, huh?” Becor said. As Operations Director and second in charge of the CIA, Argis Becor designed the accidents that happened to such citizens, at least he had since the CIA gained supremacy over the Federal Bureau of Inquiry on matters of internal insurrection.
“I don't like it when someone beats us to the punch," Pernol said.
“I don't like it either, Syg. Private murder complicates my business. A good job, too: no witnesses, no attempt to hide the fact that it was murder.”
Becor lifted the head of the victim from the floor, causing a rush of blood to seep onto the corpse's collar and the rug. The broad, gaping wound, the red slash that reached from ear to ear, looked like a smile offsetting the frown frozen on the cold, blue lips of the dead professor.
Becor shook his head, his sense of propriety offended. Anyone clever enough to stage the perfect crime should have made it look like an accident. It was sacrilege for murder to be so blatant.
“I want answers,” Pernol repeated.
Becor nodded. He would produce answers all right. If the right answers couldn't be found, then they would be manufactured. No one got to be Pernol's operations director with failures.
A study in contrasts, the two men at the top of the Covert Intelligence Agency were a comfortable working team. Right now, Pernol was looking down an aquiline nose that was a fraction of an inch too long. That small imperfection in his aristocratic face prevented the too-long, feathery lashes surrounding deep-set, blue-black eyes from looking feminine. The graying streaks at the sides of his black wavy hair, formed attractive bookends for the elegant sang-froid he affected. He played with one of the anachronistic gold studs that fastened the sleeves of his monogrammed shirt, a telltale sign of his irritation. Otherwise, the movements of his tall, trim body were spare and graceful, showing the imported silk suit to best advantage.
In contrast, Argis Becor exuded energy, his stocky frame conveying intensity and power, especially when he moved, which was constantly. His dark brown hair sprang up in short clipped curls that refused to be contained by the heavy overlay of hair dressing. Becor's dogged pertinacity formed the perfect counterpart for Pernol's aloof intellectual disdain. No one could look into Argis Becor's steel gray eyes without a shudder.
At the moment, Becor was concentrating on the minutiae of the case. He turned to the director. "Henz was under Class I observation for the last five months, Syg. The professor barely made a move that wasn't taped—ever since his classes gave birth to one too many dissidents.”
“The statistics did Henz in?”
“Five known radicals sharing only one common denominator: attendance in Henz's courses.”
“A probability not to be denied,” Pernol said.
“Henz was a marked man,” Becor said, "but now he's a dead one. Throat split from ear to ear—and the tech claims the tracking equipment failed at just the wrong moment.”
“A little too convenient?”
Becor nodded. “I have the tech under investigation, sir.”
This time it was Pernol who gave the grunt. “Any clues as to the murderer?”
Becor shook his head. “The answers to this case won't be found in the physical evidence. I've seen all I need to of the body and the butcher knife.”
Becor stood and waved on the med techs, barely noticing when they left, bearing the messy corpse on the small litter. Nor did he notice when Sygfred Pernol turned on his heels and followed them. Already deep in his own thoughts, the operations director turned on his portable link-up unit and dictated a summary into the computer. When he finished, he looked around the room. Shelves on the far wall that should have held the expected library of videotapes, books and notebooks, were empty, their contents scattered all over the floor.
He stooped and picked up a videotape. It was primitive, lacking osmeterics. But then academicians didn't need smell to make their subject matter musty. He put down the tape, picked up one of the thick messy notebooks and plopped down on the couch, settling into the tough part of his job: reading every document in the apartment into the interrecord matrix system.
His assistant clumped into the room and leaned over to eye the notebook. "Just hand-written class notes, boss. Do you think those need to go into the record?”
“Don't second-guess the computer, Frank. You know the rule: give it everything."
“Would you like me to get the optiscan, sir? This stuff's going to be awfully dry.”
“And let the computer know something I don't know? Not a chance. Thoroughness—it's the only way.” Becor pressed the record button and began the tedious job.
Six hours later Becor's voice was cracking, but that didn't slow him down. He opened yet another notebook and began to read. “Memser's rhetorical skill can be illustrated in the way he promoted his Partners for Prosperity Program. Selling it as a tax on the windfall profits of rich corporations fit neatly into his philosophy of the common man.” Becor coughed and wiggled a finger at his assistant. "Frank, see if you can find something to ease my throat.”
Becor's assistant rummaged through the cabinet on the far wall.
“By appealing to the principle of equality,” Becor read, “Memser virtually nationalized business under the guise of a minor tax adjustment.”
“Sherry, sir, that's all there is.” Frank poured a tot and brought the amber liquid to his boss.
Becor smelled it, grimaced, and downed it with a single gulp. “That's better.” He started to read again. “This explanation made perfect sense to the average working man who lacked an understanding of business economics. The politicians who protested that Memser was nationalizing private resources were tarred with Memser's favorite epithet: elitists.”
“Sounds subversive to me,” Frank said.
“Henz walked a fine line between stating the facts and interpreting them,” Becor said. “It's not too hard to figure where his heart lay.”
Thirty hours later, Becor knew more about political science than he'd ever wanted to know. His mind was spinning with ideas, but most of them concerned murder, not politics. The CIA operations director clicked off the probabilities then stretched to get rid of the kinks in his shoulders, the price of a brief cat nap on Henz's over-soft couch.
Clever Henz, he'd protected his rear: the classnotes were carefully worded to condemn without condemning. But the lectures would lead any half-attentive student to a devastating analysis of the Memser government. Clever Henz. Dead Henz. But why? And who?
Becor put Henz's last notebook back on the shelf where he'd lined them up in orderly progression. The lecture notes had given him the man's public face. Now came the interesting part: the private visage of Cosmo Henz, the essential part, the personal stuff.
Becor's throat felt like sandpaper; he walked to Henz's liquor cabinet and poured himself another sherry. This time he downed it slowly, sip by sip, while his mind cased the apartment room by room.
Messy, really messy. Dirty clothes covered the chairs and dresser in the tiny bedroom. Bathroom shelves overflowed with bottles and boxes, a fine layer of talcum powder covering everything. In the box-sized kitchen, crumbs and grease stains created a mosaic on the butcher block counter.
“Would you eat in here, Frank?”
“Not me, boss.”
“This guy's a slob, Frank. Finishing the personal stuff may take days.” The computer would want every last bill, note, address—even laundry marks and shopping lists. The interrecord matrix development depended on getting the total picture, and the personal stuff was what revealed the secrets: it usually worked that way. That's why Becor kept it till last, like a kid saving the cherry on top of the sundae.
Becor shoved up his already-wrinkled sleeves and walked to the roll-top desk beneath the large living room window. He threw up the lid. “Holy snort.”
Frank looked over his shoulder. "It's neat.”
“Yeah, and it doesn't figure." Becor stuck his fingers deep into each pigeon hole. "Nothing here.” He turned to the small drawers. “Only a few bills and announcements of professional meetings.”
Becor grew taut with excitement. He shut the desk, bolted for the kitchen and opened the cabinet drawers one by one. "Not even a shopping list.”
He sprinted to the bedroom and opened the single bureau. “Nothing, Frank. There's nothing of a personal nature in this whole damned apartment.”
“Maybe he didn't have much of a social life,” Frank said.
Becor's senses tingled with exhilaration. "It's going to be one of those times.”
“Yeah? You think you'll beat the computer on this one?"
“This will make it eleven times,” Becor said.
“I don't understand you, boss. The computer's supposed to be your assistant.”
“Yeah, but the son of a bitch is my opponent, too.”
“You sure act that way. Seems like you're happiest when it fails.”
“Not when it fails, when I win, when I pick up something the computer misses. I live for it, man.”
“What makes you think this will be one of those times?”
“The lack of personal data--the computer won't have much to sink its teeth into. And it's wrong, Frank, it's fishy.”
“How so, boss?”
“What's important in this case is not what's here but what's missing. Not a single personal contact, not a communicator list, not an old birthday card, not even an address scribbled on that notepad. It just doesn't figure for a fellow as popular--and as messy--as Henz. No, this guy was purposely keeping a clean slate. And why would he do that if he weren't up to something? Our professor was guilty of something big, Frank. Henz was up to his slit neck in something seditious.”
“Maybe the murderer took all the personal stuff.”
“Nah, there wasn’t time enough between when he was last seen alive and the time the corpse was found. This had to be a quick job.”
“So he hides any clues to his acquaintances if he fears detection,” Frank said, “but he doesn't do it so somebody can slit his throat.”
“Agreed,” Becor said, "there's another factor here. Two factions? Two seditious groups at each other's throats? Now that would be real interesting. The murder's been made to look like a crime of passion. But this wasn't murder in the heat of rage; this was a cold, calculated killing. We've stumbled onto a deep, deep game, or I'll miss my bet.”
“From what we crammed into it, boss, the computer won't have a chance in hell of figuring that out.”
“That's the beauty, Frank. I'd bet a week's tokes the computer will strike out. But there's a trail somewhere, and I'm going to find it.”
Rolling down his sleeves, Becor put on his suit jacket. "I'm going back to headquarters to review the spy tapes made on Henz for the last five months.”
“Department analyst gave the tapes a clean bill,” Frank said.
“The clue will be there. Somewhere in the tapes, there'll be a slipup, even if Henz knew he was under observation. If you're thorough enough, you always find the trail.”
Rigel Danou lay cosseted with Charelle Raynor in the big bed in the upstairs bedroom of Balfour's family cottage. The smile on his lips was well deserved; somehow he always performed better when they made love here. In his own digs, he kept imagining the restless Shilene Valquist just a floor beneath. For the first time in two days, he was distracted from his concern for Cosmo Henz.
Charelle's finely-veined body, tucked tightly against his own, bore the post-coital flush that changed her pale, pale skin from alabaster to rosy. Her carroty-red hair, sweaty now, was curling up in tiny tendrils. Although small of stature, Charelle's large breasts, wide hips, and wasp-thin waist, gave her a figure a Victorian would have envied.
Idly his hand played with freeing up a red curl plastered to her cheek. “I love you, Charelle.”
“Of course you love me, Rigel. Whatever happens, nothing can change the fact that we love each other.”
“What d'you mean, 'whatever happens?”
Charelle lay back. "I don't know. Sometimes I get this feeling of impending doom.”
“Now what does that mean?”
She hesitated. "I just hate having you there in that house. . . with that damned woman.”
Rigel propped himself up against the padded headboard. "So it's that again.”
“She's so beautiful. And she's always in your apartment.”
“Look, just because she prowls my apartment doesn't mean anything's going on. If only I knew how to turn her off without losing my apartment. Damn it, I shouldn't have sold the house when my parents died.”
“On your salary? You couldn't possibly afford the upkeep. And you would have had to drop out of graduate school.”
“I should have found a way." He shook his head, all thought of renewed love-making suddenly gone. He reached out and turned the knob on the bedside table. The teleformer lit up across the room. His eyes browsed the flowing headlines, then suddenly he sat bolt upright and keyed the machine in for one of the leads. "My god, Cosmo Henz is dead, murdered!”
“The professor?”
“Yeah, I've got to get out of here.” Rigel grabbed for his pants. “Who's the best hypnotist around?"
“You know they're unreliable.”
“I have no choice, the hoop is down. Now I've got to reconstruct my last conversation with Henz. I think he tried to give me a message.”
Charelle hesitated. "Well, if you have to trust any of the bastards, try Tondor. At least he's never been caught slipping information to the fuzzies.”
Rigel zipped up his pants and grabbed for his shirt. “Surely all hypnotists can't be dishonest. What's his address?”
Chapter 2: Federal Finagling
Waldo Memser closed the door of the Oval Office and walked directly to the bar that his wife, Muriel, had put in when she redecorated. The tall dapper man, whose graying hair added a touch of maturity to an otherwise boyish face, looked every inch a president. Washington dowagers were fond of comparing him to Gary Grant; the resemblance would not have occurred to those who knew him well.
He poured himself a large tot of scotch neat, leaving the bottle in conspicuous display on the counter. Memser took a great swig of the whiskey, gave a satisfied sigh, and crossed to the small plebeian desk beneath the large graceful windows.
He hated the penury of the office, but most of all, he hated that desk—tinier than the one his secretary had had back in Eau Claire, Wisconsin, when Memser had headed the dairy consortium. It was sad what he had to put up with for his government of the common man. He allowed himself a moment of self-pity.
Then, with the briefest of nods, he acknowledged Ralph Woodson, hunched over in the loveseat whose brown and yellow flowered pattern matched the chintz curtains from Montgomery-Sears. Waldo Memser had refused to let Muriel swathe the loveseat with a plastic slipcover. Enough was enough, he had said, even for the president of the common man.
“Well, Ralphie, I see you didn't wait for your president's permission to plump down your fat hide.”
Woodson ignored the comment. "There's another strong impeachment move afoot, Waldo.” The senator's eyes fixed on Waldo Memser's glass, then roamed to the bottle on the counter.
“Bah, why are they so dramatic?” Memser said. "I've never seen an impeachment plot that couldn't be subverted. Just so long as they don't try to restore elections.” That was his one worry: the delay in national elections at the end of his second eight-year term wasn't playing well at all.
“Who thinks they know what this time, Ralphie?”
Woodson wiggled as if his uncomfortable conscience were in the seat of his baggy pants. “Sam Grayson found out about that private arms sale to the North Koreans. And he knows the profits didn't come into government coffers. You won't get Sam, you know; he's incorruptible.”
“That's what they say about you, Ralphie, but here you are, all bought and paid for.”
The lines that were just beginning to harden at the sides of Memser's still handsome mouth formed a lop-sided H as he smiled. But his eyes weren't smiling at all.
Ralph Woodson's left hand began to tremble. He shoved it under his rump.
“Okay, that's what Sam Grayson knows," Memser said. “But what can he prove?”
“The word is that he's got witnesses lined up.”
“Who in the hell could he have other than the damned North Koreans?”
“You got it, Waldo.” The tremor of Woodson's hand was duplicated by the quiver in his voice. “Some of the Korean deal-makers have been ousted by their government. A couple got out of the country before they were assassinated. They're willing to testify, for a price.”
“Who's going to believe slit-eyed foreigners who take money for depositions?”
Woodson shrugged his shoulders. “That's for you to decide, I just pass along information.”
“Who's paying these North Korean ratfinks?”
“Sam, with his own money so he can't be accused of misusing government funds.”
Memser nodded, he had the picture. “Run along, Ralphie.”
“But. . . ” Ralph Woodson raised his right hand, then let it fall to his side again. He shuffled to the disguised door behind the panel that led to the underground transit system. In seconds he was gone.
Waldo Memser forgot about Ralph Woodson almost before the hidden door closed. He pressed the call button for his private secretary, and Lacey Grant entered a second too soon.
As usual, the tall blonde wore a form-fitting black suit and white silk blouse that emphasized her lithe figure. Today her waist-long straight blond hair was hanging free, not bound in a tight bun at her neck the way she wore it for formal occasions. Her unblinking, slightly slanted blue eyes stared directly into his.
“Listening at the door again, love?” he asked. “I don't know why you bother when I tell you everything anyway. You're the most curious damned woman I've ever known.”
“It comes with the package, luv.”
Waldo held out his arms and Lacey Grant glided into them.
“Y'know, it's been a year now,” he said, “and I want you as much as the first time.” He kissed her deeply, his tongue exploring the inside of her mouth. Then he held her at arms' length. “First, call Barney. I want to see him at noon. That'll leave us time for a little diversion before he arrives.” Memser held his timespeak to his ear. It still gave him shivers when that implanted cell at his wrist barked out the time, followed by his Class I messages.
Lacey leaned over the Porta-com and called up Barney’s name while Waldo closed the plebeian Venetian blinds—also from Montgomery-Sears.
Sygfred Pernol walked into the office of his operations director and threw the computer analysis across the desk. "Do you buy it, Becor?”
Argis Becor picked up the heavy printout and turned to the last page. He snorted and read out loud, “Cosmo Henz inspired sedition by his classroom lectures but had no other traceable links to known conspirators. Probability of murder incidental to robbery attempt by person or persons unknown: 70%. Probability of murder by acquaintance in moment of anger: 27%. Probability of murder linked to sedition: 3%.”
Becor tossed the printout back at Pernol. “Everything was there except his tokes; an expensive watch and a gold tennis bracelet were on his wrist. I don't buy any of it. It's too pat. I'll give you a probability of ninety-nine percent that there's something fishy about Henz's murder. And here's my little fishhook.”
Becor leafed through the messy papers that covered his desk, found the report and waved it before Pernol eyes. “Right after the teleformer announcement of Henz's murder, Rigel Danou goes to a hypnotist with a request for a verbal, word-by-word playback of a conversation with Henz.”
Pernol raised an eyebrow. “The son of those traitors?”
Becor nodded. “Our reports claim he's harmless, that he didn't know what his parents were up to. But we've kept him under Class II surveillance—until now.”
“What did he and Henz discuss?” Pernol sat down gingerly on the chair at the side of Becor's desk. Carefully, he crossed his legs in the crisp tailored trousers. He pulled over an ash dispenser after searching for a clean spot on its rim. The director lit up a lovestick.
“Just a casual conversation in the halls between a professor and one of his students,” Becor said.
Pernol stared at his own well-manicured hands. “Something our men missed?”
“Not really, we'd never have given the conversation a second thought if Danou weren't in such a damned hurry to retrieve it.”
“What's on the tape?”
Becor raised a finger to slow the director down. “You'll recall that Danou's parents were snuffed out in a car accident last year just before we implemented their termination. A rare, freakish thing: they were in the automated zone underground. There shouldn't have been an accident. A miswiring, the investigator said.”
“I remember,” Pernol said. “Their car was in a high speed track and ran head on into an empty car on its way back to central dispersal.”
“We already had their 'accident' planned," Becor said, lighting a new lovestick with the stub of the one he removed from his mouth. “Quite a coincidence, Henz being the second subversive to be wiped out right before planned termination.”
“Third, if you count both the husband and the wife," Pernol said. “Three seditions, three deaths before termination.”
Becor nodded. “And now the son has this casual conversation with Henz just before his demise.”
“Okay, you've got me interested," Pernol said. “What was said?”
Becor flipped on a recorder. “Here's the key part—from Henz to the kid.”
The machine blared out the voice of the dead Cosmo Henz: “Take Professor Gervais' course next semester, Rigel, it will round out your education. Just tell him I said you were ready for it.”
“Doesn't sound very mysterious," Pernol said. “What's the catch?”
"The catch is that Gervais teaches in the psychobiology department. Now why would a political science professor urge one of his graduate students to take a course in psychobiology? Further, the only course Gervais teaches next term is an advanced one. Rigel Danou wouldn't qualify for it without special permission.”
Pernol sat forward in his chair and stubbed out his barely-smoked lovestick. “Gervais. . . isn't that the guy who's had such astounding success in taking life-long crazies off the backwards and restoring them to sanity?”
“The same.”
“Hmm, more and more interesting. What's your next step, Becor?”
“We'll watch Danou and see if he leads us to bigger fish. I've placed both Danou and Gervais on Class I surveillance. So far their records are clean, but my nose tells me we're onto something big.”
Rigel wrinkled his nose at the musty smell of the office in the old psychobionics department of the university. He squirmed on the hard seat across from Professor Gervais. “So you see, Dr. Gervais, I'm really here on Dr. Henz's recommendation.”
“Yes, Mr. Danou, but my course on advanced psychobionic measurement is usually reserved for majors in the field.” The professor leaned back and closed his eyes for several moments. "However, if Henz thought you should take it, he must have had his reasons. I guess we should respect the poor man's last wishes. His death was a terrible shock.”
Professor Gervais gave a somber look that seemed more show than sincerity. “Frankly, I'm not sure why he recommended my course, Mr. Danou.” The professor paused to brush the ashes from his lovestick out of his scraggly gray beard. The ashes fell unattended on a bunch of examination papers strewn over the desk, the last live ash burning a small hole in the corner of the top-most paper.
The performance put Rigel on the edge of his chair.
“My suggestion is this," Gervais said, “join me on rounds at the Institute one day next week. That'll give you an idea of whether psychobionics is for you. Some students are put off after seeing our patients firsthand.”
“The Institute?”
A smirk spread across the professor's lips. "Don't know much about psychobionics, do you? Obviously you don't know much about me either. I'm the director of the Geigy Institute for the Mentally Impaired.”
“The Geigy gooney farm?” The common epithet slipped from Rigel's lips before he caught it.
“Yes, Mr. Danou, though we professionals take a higher view of the place." The professor rose from his chair in what looked like an obvious dismissal. "Let's give it a try. Make rounds with me. . . any day next week. . . and then we'll talk about whether or not you should take the course.”
“Wednesday?” Rigel asked. “I don't work until noon on Wednesdays.”
“Wednesday it is then. Give your name to the guard at the gate, and he'll direct you to my office." Gervais let yet another ash to fall into his beard. “I warn you, I start early: 7:00 A.M.”
“I'll be there,” Rigel said, almost sorry he'd started the whole business. Stammering his goodbyes, he bustled out of Gervais' dank office, glad for the fresher air in the hallway.
Taking long steps, Rigel left the rickety old psychobionics building, cut across campus, and jay-walked through the traffic circle to the Publicarium, that mammoth warehouse of a building, its neo-Memser architecture contrasting awkwardly with the surrounding buildings of more graceful eras. The cupola on top of the square box of a building did nothing to relieve its dull lines; the pimple on the penitentiary, insiders called it.
Rigel pressed his wrist twice as he entered the building; a soft feminine voice from his timespeak informed him it was a quarter till noon. Good, he still had fifteen minutes, five of which he lost waiting for the elevator and reaching his floor.
He waved to the receptionist filing her nails under the plaque proclaiming the floor to be the Department of Health and Human Happiness. He continued down the dusky hallway toward his office. When he saw that the corridor was deserted, he sprinted for the fire-stairs at the rear of the ill-lit hall and dashed down the three flights to Charelle's floor in the Office of Environmental Ecology.
A few long strides brought him to her door. After a quick rap, he turned the knob and entered. A large poster of a tropic isle faced him from the window-less wall behind Charelle's desk. Charts and maps filled the remaining walls, with two chairs and a desk taking up most of the floor space.
Charelle Raynor rose and came around the desk. More than a full head taller, Rigel lifted her off the floor in a hurried kiss. “Well?” She pulled away as he lowered her feet to the floor.
“I don't know.” Rigel allowed his rangy body to collapse into the visitor's chair while Charelle propped her derriere against the edge of the desk.
“Gervais didn't seem to know a thing about it. Maybe Henz had no special reason for recommending the course.”
“Impossible,” Charelle said.
“Well, let’s think.” Rigel furrowed his brow into a single scraggly line. “Care of the mentally ill is part of any society's job, and that makes it political science.”
“Too far fetched,” the practical little redhead said. “Even you can't really believe that.” She picked up a bunch of grapes from her desk and popped one into Rigel's mouth. "You've got to eat more, Rigel, you're losing weight.” She straightened the poorly tied scarf over his protruding Adam's apple.
“I'm not sure what I should do about this, Charelle.”
“Then drop it. It will only get you involved in political intrigues.”
“That's the whole idea, isn't it? To do what we can to change the system.”
“It could be trouble,” she said. “The CIA on Henz's trail, and then he ends up murdered. Taking his advice could be dangerous.”
“But I owe it to him. And to myself.” Rigel unfolded his body from the small chair and planted a firm kiss on Charelle's upturned mouth. “Got to go." With a quick look down the hall, he dashed to the back stairs.
Across the hall from Charelle's office, one door opened just a tiny crack, and Lillith Mervain's attentive eye, glued to that crack, took in Rigel's flight. Little that happened in Environmental Ecology escaped the observant eye of the department's matriarch. When Rigel was out of sight, she crossed the hall to Charelle's office and gave the door three staccato raps.
“Come in, Lillith.”
The sturdy middle-aged spinster with the bulldog face stepped inside. The shake of Charelle's head told her the tale. “What's he done now, Charelle?”
“I'm not sure, Lillith. He's playing political games, but they may run deeper than he knows.”
“Forget him, Charelle, that boy spells trouble.” Sometimes Lillith was almost glad that romance had passed her by. It led to such foolish complications. Perhaps her homely face and square body were blessings in disguise.
Lacey Grant gave a grin of appreciation as she and Waldo Memser peaked together in their second orgasm of the afternoon. With a final tremor, Waldo Memser buried his head in her neck, and Lacey's grin, although the muscles of her face didn't move much, turned into a sardonic mask.
She looked up at the white, chiffon canopy that made the magnificent circular bed in Memser's private White House chambers into a stage. Filmy white always reminded her of her father's death. It was often her final memory of lovemaking with Waldo Memser. Besides, it seemed only fair. If it weren't for her father, she wouldn't be there.
Not that making love with Waldo Memser was so bad, even though she lived for the day she could tell him it had all been a sham. But today, revenge wasn't foremost in Lacey's concerns. Waldo was up to something; he was too amorous, too animated. He hadn't even reached for a lovestick before he'd begun stroking her body for the second time. She knew the signs, he'd pulled off something big. And she'd missed it despite her constant spying. Zands, what was it?
She cast a dubious eye at the teleformer that he'd insisted on leaving tuned in. The news headlines drifted lazily across the screen. Suddenly, the background music on the box ceased; the slow moving ribbon of news topics came to an abrupt halt.
“We interrupt this program to bring you a special news bulletin," the announcer said in a sonorous voice. “Senator Sam Grayson of North Carolina has been found dead in his Washington apartment, apparently of a massive stroke.”
With an energetic thrust, Waldo Memser entered Lacey Grant's body once more, his powers suddenly revitalized. And Lacey knew what she had missed: Sam Grayson might be dead all right, but it surely wasn't of a stroke.
The Strange Indentity Crises of Rigel Danou is available in an e-book for $4.99
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Prologue………………….…………………1
Book I: THE EXCHANGE PROGRAM……3
Chapter 1: Clues and Crimes………………4
Chapter 2: Federal Finagling………………19
Chapter 3: The Swap Shop……………….…30
Chapter 4: New Beginnings…………………40
Chapter 5: Dirty Work and Deception………51
Chapter 6: Insights and Intrigues……………66
Chapter 7: Ups and Downs…………….……80
Chapter 8: Plots and Plans…………………98
Chapter 9: Switching Sides………………..116
Book II: FROM THE OTHER SIDE………134
Chapter 10: Turning Tides…………………135
Chapter 11: Meeting of the Minds………..151
Chapter 12: Hell Hath No Fury……………162
Chapter 13: Disclosures and Dilemmas…179
Chapter 14: The Worm Turns……………..190
Chapter 15: The Stew Thickens…………203
Chapter 16: Pressing Matters……………213
Chapter 17: Full Circle………………….226
Chapter 18: Final Flurries………………238
Chapter 19: Icy Conclusions…………….253