PART NINE
_September 25--October 3, 1977_
Acapulco, Sunday, Sep. 25
Dear Lee:
The General says he can get this to you with comparative privacy, which seems like a good idea. Apparently I don’t mind broadcasting my nastier moods; it’s just if an unaccustomed brief spell of humility comes over me, I can’t stand to have anyone know I occasionally behave like a civilized human.
_If_ I do, or am, which is probably open to doubt. Particularly after my last radiowire to you.
Your reply caught up with me the first time the facs company had an address for me, which was during a couple of refreshingly sober days in the Rio jail--great place, by the way, clean, spartan, healthy as all hell. Might have done better to have done worse (I took a poke at a foul-mouthed ass in a night club) and been kept longer.
Anyhow, it seemed a bit late, and hardly the place, from which to answer your PS. Hoppen Harbridge also located me there; he’d been concerned because of the subpoena for me being withdrawn. Thought maybe it had been served instead and I was being maybe too royally entertained somewhere in private until T (for testimony) Day came. Man seems as uneager for me to take the stand as I am, which gets _me_ a bit concerned. (It will be no news to him when he reads this; I’ve already told him so. I suppose I’d rather have him read it than him and every other damn snoop or spy from how many? countries, which is what I gather already happened to our previous by-radiowire exchanges.)
I seem to be rambling on, just possibly in an effort to avoid coming to the point. Which is as follows:
I’d very much like to take you up on your implied invitation. I have only recently learned how much I need you. I learned it, babe, from Toronto down to Rio, with many stops in between. Or amend that: I started in St. Croix, worked my way up to Toronto via home, and etc. But in the process I learned a couple of other things, most important of which is that there seems to be remarkably little of Johnny at home these days--barring some mixed crap and fury, a bit of which I got rid of in that Rio ginmill. Some more of which probably is creeping into this letter, no matter which words I reach for.
So I need you; so what the hell do you need me for?
And is it just what a guy wants most, to _need_ a dame? _You don’t need_ me. You’ve made it damn clear, and I, belatedly, bless you and thank you for doing just that, doll. God help me, I do think you _love_ me. Or loved, as the case may be. It occurs to me that with effort and application I might learn to do likewise in return. If I can’t I can at least _stop needing_.
So tell ole Chris thanks from me--or Kutler, whoever _did_ mastermind getting us up there. I might have gone on leeching on you the rest of my life, or yours (which might have been shorter; how long could you stand it anyhow?) if _something_ hadn’t happened to blast us apart long enough for me to back off and get a good look at J. Wendt. The veritas in vino is stronger proof in night clubs, maybe? Or were you watering the stuff at home, babe?
The Gen. says 10 minutes, if I want to get this into the package. (10 minutes with or without time for him to read?) So--
I understand there is about to be a new subpoena for me. I’d enjoy slugging the next guy, too, but am temporarily convinced it is better not to do so off home property, and also better to stay off home property myself for a bit, for many reasons, not all of them tactical.
(Speaking of tactics, it’s only fair to warn Harbridge, which I haven’t directly, as yet, but will, that I am still on the other side of the fence. My distaste for McL. happens to be stronger than my preference for throwing spokes in space wheels. But Gen., if you think you are harboring anything less than a viper in your bosom, be disillusioned.)
Anyhow, this is to let you know that my immediate future plans consist of a knapsack, a couple of books which, if I bother to read them, might bring me up to date in my supposed profession, and probably a jug of honest tequila under a bough. The last is not part of the Grand Reformation Plan, but should be mentioned as still the great likelihood.
In any case, I will have no address for a bit, so tell Kutler not to try looking. Even Harbridge won’t know where I am. (The Gen’s mysterious sources show that Kutler’s subpoena is already signed--like my own--and will be going up same orbit as this.) As for you, babe, stay put a while if you can. You’ll hear from me, soon as I know what to say. Thanks for the chance to say anything. Apologies for what’s been said--for a lot of things, for me, I guess. Convey same to Chris, will you?
Listen, babe, I am one crazy-mixed-up bastard, as you have better cause even than most to know--but for what it’s worth, I _do_--Hell, I can’t even say that. Let me say, I do _want to love_ you. If I make the grade, I’ll let you know. Meantime--
Hell.
Johnny
* * * * *
FROM: Christensen TO: Harbridge DATE: Sep. 29, 1977 VIA SPECIAL COURIER
Seems I missed a few bits, while McL was here. Phil says I have gone soft in the head like the rest of the Dome people. That’s _not_ what he says, but how I read it. He’ll undoubtedly explain his notions to you, and to you they might even make sense. You two boys should have a ball, come to think of it. But I don’t know what I’ll do here on my own, so don’t keep him away; I seem to _need_ a headshrinker for chief aide up here. At least, it’s been working that way.
With that off my chest: McL’s boys have behaved themselves here. In fact, they’ve been too damn nice (which is part of Phil’s theory), probably. To hear them talk today, butter wouldn’t melt and all that, but we’ll find out, I guess, when they hit dirt again. Can’t give you anything to build specific suspicions on, because what investigating they did seemed pretty damn routine and unenthusiastic to me. Mostly, they goofed off seeing how far they could get with the female personnel. Hope they got sent home happy, and appearances would indicate as much. (But it worries Phil; I’m getting an education, man. Always thought psychers were supposed to be _less_ puritanical than us plain folks.)
Thanks for getting that letter to L. Big help. Phil will fill you in on her too; he finally let me in on it. Hope you didn’t--sorry. Was about to hope you didn’t really let Wendt out of sight, but I ought to know better by now.
As you can see, I am confused by a lot of what’s going on. Will try to get clearer by next week. Or am I missing some data?
PAC
LUNA LAB LOVE NEST SAYS McLAFFERTY
Mexcity, Oct. 2: Scientific research is losing out to research in the art of love among the elite inhabitants of the U.S. Moon Dome, according to Rep. Ramon E. McLafferty, Chairman of the SAC Security Subcommittee.
The Subcommittee, which has been conducting Special Hearings probing Security leaks in the Space program, will turn its attention next week to a “serious impairment of efficiency and morale prevalent in the Research Center” at the U.S.A.A. Moon Dome, according to a statement issued after Chairman McLafferty conferred with members of an investigating team which returned from Moon Dome on today’s shuttles. The Representative went to Baja California Spaceport earlier this afternoon to meet with the investigators immediately on their arrival.
In a press release issued after the conference, the nature of the alleged “impairment of efficiency and morale” was not specified, but another paragraph stated that “the findings of the investigators are such as to suggest a thoroughgoing congressional probe into the personnel of the Moon Dome and the moral attitudes and practices prevailing there.”
Questioned by reporters, Mr. McLafferty added that the testimony he hoped to produce at the new hearings would be of such an “intimate and personal” nature in “many cases” that not only will the hearings not be live-televised (as was true for the Security hearings a few weeks back), but may be closed to the press as well. If this should be true, the Representative assured reporters that the entire proceedings would be filmed, for subsequent release to the public, after editing to “protect any innocent persons whose names may be brought in either unintentionally or with malicious intent.”
Usually authoritative sources close to the congressman said, off the record, that there was definite evidence in McLafferty’s hands of “certain instances of loose living and certain unconventional sexual arrangements” at the Moon Dome. Rep. McLafferty’s comment on this was: “We certainly do not plan to level any specific charges at this time.” He referred to “unbelievable” conditions reported by his investigators, and added: “We certainly will probe the matter thoroughly, and put an end to this sort of corruption, if it does exist, before it can become a national disgrace.”
Queried as to whether hearings on the alleged immorality would be conducted by his Security Subcommittee, or by the SAC itself, Rep. McLafferty indicated that he felt the security leaks originally under investigation by his team, and the new findings, were definitely related to each other, and that the hearings would continue under the aegis of the Subcommittee.
One witness scheduled to testify during the coming week should be able to shed considerable light on “immoral practices” such as those alleged. That is Dr. Philip Kutler, Staff Psychiatrist for the Moon Dome, who was subpoenaed by the Subcommittee last week, and arrived today on the same shuttle with the investigating team.
Reporters present at the shuttle landing at Baja California Spaceport saw no signs of unfriendliness between Subcommittee investigators and Dr. Kutler, but were unable to obtain any statement from the doctor.
Subpoenas for a number of other members of the Dome staff were issued today, and shipped via Moon shuttle in the hands of a Dome staffer returning from Earth leave who was sworn in as process server just before takeoff time. An official list of those named in the subpoenas will not be issued until after service on Wednesday evening (when the shuttle arrives at Moon Dome), but among those named in authoritative circles as probable witnesses were Research Director P. A. Christensen, who testified two weeks ago on Security control; Dr. T. L. Bourgnese, Biochem Chief at the Dome; Leonard Lakeland, Hydroponics Technician; Dr. David Chernik, Medical Staff; a number of female staffers, whose names were withheld, and quite possibly the newest female staff member, tri-di dancer Lisa Trovi, whose appointment as Psychiatric Assistant made headlines a short time ago. It was not known whether Miss Trovi would be questioned about her own experiences at the Moon Dome or in connection with Col. John Wendt, whom she accompanied to the Dome on the mysterious visit six weeks ago about which the Subcommittee has been eager to question him.
A new subpoena for Col. Wendt has also been issued, but since his release last Saturday from Rio Detention House, where he served two days of a twenty-day drunk-and-disorderly charge, Col. Wendt has disappeared.
_Acapulco--Sunday, October 2, 11:30_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)
Under grizzled hair, the General’s face was still strikingly young: the tight-skinned smooth-jawed face of a man whose energies are never at the ebb. A man capable of restraint and of control, conscious of power, continually on the advance. A dangerous man, thought Kutler--a man almost without weaknesses himself, and entirely without empathy for weakness in others.
“Frankly, I think it’s damned important,” Phil said crisply. “You know better than I do what shape he’s in right now. But I wouldn’t want to be responsible for what he’ll do when he sees _this_ bloody foolishness.” He rattled the folded newspaper in his hand.
“I’ll be just as frank,” Harbridge answered after a moment’s thoughtful silence. “Of course Chris was right. I know where Wendt is, and I could reach him for you. But it’s a risk I don’t think is warranted. We’re in a position to--let me say, _prevent_ any wild behavior on his part. Meantime, I’d as lief not--draw enemy fire?--by contacting him.”
That would be final. Phil had hoped for the admission of knowledge, worked for it. Now he had it, and realized he had gained nothing.
“All right,” he said tiredly. “You’re the tactician.” He was suddenly not so much angry as disgusted.
“Jed,” he said, and didn’t even realize till he was halfway through his speech that the General’s first name had come naturally. “I understand your hesitation about contacting Johnny.” _You don’t dare talk to him. It would mess up all your thinking, wouldn’t it?_ “But in the event that you should be in touch with him in the next few days--or have some means of sending him a message--I think you might do him a favor to let him know Lisa is pregnant.”
Harbridge had to repress a faint grin. So he had known all along. Phil had counted on shock value in that one.
“I had the impression the lady did not want him to know?”
“The lady is of several minds in the matter. But I think it would be easier if Johnny felt that she sent him the message before he reads or hears it from some public source.”
The General thought that one over. He shook his head. “I can’t see it, Phil. It don’t fit. What you said about Ray McLafferty and this whole new pitch fits fine. But not throwing the girl to the wolves. What would he get out of it?”
“Revenge?” Phil said, testing.
“Revenge?” Harbridge smiled indulgently. “This is politics, Kutler, not couch games.” He thought a moment more. “And let’s say Ray isn’t the man I think he is--Why take it out on _her_? You or Chris, I could _maybe_ see. Why _her_?”
The man was good. Damn good. But from the outside only. Damn fine analysis; no understanding ... no, that was wrong too ... no compassion? ... no _insight_, no intuition.
_We’d make a great team--if we could stand each other._
Phil shrugged. “He’s not the only one to think about.”
“He’s the important one. He puts out the releases.” Harbridge looked up sharply. “One thing maybe you left out? Ray’s not the guy to take no for an answer. Not very easily. He’ll damn well see to it Trovi’s protected. For now.”
“It may not be up to him.”
“What the hell are you driving at, Kutler?”
“He’s got a mess of subpoenas out. Including for her. People talk. _She’s_ not much of a liar either. Or take me.” _And take special note of the fine set of rattles while you’re at it._ “It may sound quaint, but I have an aversion to perjury. So do some other people--non-political types. Scientists. Like that.”
“You don’t think _he’s_ overlooked that? Why in hell do you suppose he sacrificed coverage? He gives the press conferences.”
_I’m damned if I’ll spell it out for you. I warned you. That’s enough._
Phil shrugged again and let it drop.
_Acapulco--Monday, October 3, 7:30_ A.M. (_C.S.T._)
The General had been awake for fifteen minutes when the call came. He was still in his pyjamas, sipping his second coffee and reading through Chris’ message again, reviewing the talk with Dr. Kutler in his mind; he had just realized that he had never gotten around to hearing Kutler’s pet theories, when the call came. He took it where he was, in the bedroom.
Wendt’s face was taut as his voice, but he was in control. He looked surprisingly young, tanned, and healthy. Could be quite a guy, Jed decided, if he stayed sober long enough.
“Saw this thing in the paper,” Wendt said, without preliminaries. “What’s the scoop?”
“I can’t say for sure,” Jed told him. “And if I could, I wouldn’t on the phone.”
“Anything to it?”
Harbridge shrugged. “You know more than I do. Last time I was up was to pin eagles on you.”
“That’s right--_sir_. I damn near forgot, didn’t I--_sir_?”
“Come off it, Wendt. It was stupid enough, calling me. Don’t let’s play games now.”
“No, _sir_. Sorry to have bothered you.”
Jed saw his arm tense; he’d be reaching for the switch. “Hold on, John,” he said sharply. The damn fool call was made. Might as well get some use out of it.
“Yes, sir?”
Harbridge sighed. All right, two could play that, if necessary. “I take it you have decided to accept the subpoena?” he asked acidly.
“I have my heli right here--sir--to go get it with.”
Jed grinned. “At ease, will you, Wendt?” He saw the other man relax imperceptibly, unwillingly. “Okay, as long as I know you’re a law-abiding citizen, and not calling to ask for assistance in this absurd evasive maneuver--” He allowed just the comers of his mouth to twitch slightly. “--I can tell you this much. My own opinion is it’s a personal spite feud. I think he’s got it in for Chris or Kutler or both of them. I had a talk with Kutler last night and--”
“Excuse me, sir. Are these Dr. Kutler’s opinions you’re giving me, or your own?”
“Both. Why?”
“I’m not sure I’d put my faith in his explanations.”
“They’re the only explanations I’ve had so far,” Jed said crisply. “Maybe next week I’ll know more.”
“That’s what I actually called about,” Wendt said, dropping the mocking-game altogether. “Do you, or will you, know which witnesses will be subpoenaed for next week?”
“I don’t know now. You’ll probably see it in the papers same time I do.”
“I see.” His eyes made sure he didn’t believe a word of it. “I was hoping there might be some way to have a word with--one of the people whose names I saw mentioned.”
“Sure. Any time you get tired of hiding out, just drop by and I’ll arrange a call for you. Glad to do anything I can. Stop by this evening.” He glanced at the wall clock, visible in Wendt’s screen, trying to remind him that by now they _knew_ where he was. He thought he got an answering flicker.
“Well, I’m taking up too much of your time, General. Suppose I give you a buzz tonight, anyhow?”
“If there’s anything _important_ on your mind, sure. But, John--”
“Yes?”
“I--wouldn’t pay too much attention to the news stories. You understand?”
“I think so. I’ll buzz you. So long.”
_Balsas, Mexico--7:45_ A.M. (_C.S.T._)
He left the phone booth, stepped into the hovering ground car, and took off on a cushion of air, silently. Inside fifteen minutes, he entered the outskirts of Teloloapan, without incident. He parked the rented car neatly on a residential sidestreet, and grabbed an airbus downtown. His clothing would be least conspicuous in a working-class place. He found a ginmill open for the go-to-work quickie trade, and settled down.
After a week of water and coke, the Mexican beer was biting and strong. He drank slowly; he had a lot of thinking to do first, and over that bridge there had to be room for some action still.
Meanwhile, there was plenty of time to think; and to drink--slowly. It was too early to do anything else.
At nine o’clock, he began on the phone, trying to locate Phil Kutler. Anyone else would have been better. But like the man said, his was the only game in town.
By eleven, the operator had him convinced that the doctor was not registered at any hotel in Mexcity; the only forwarding address at his New York apartment was Moon Dome.
“Have you tried Decagon Information?” And why in Hell hadn’t he thought of that _first_?
“Just one _mommmmment_....” And she was back--with Jed Harbridge’s Acapulco phone. _Great!_
He went back to his booth, drank one more bottle of beer, and decided to be logical this time. He walked down the length of the bar, toward the sleepy-looking middle-aged Mexican who had perched on the bar stool all morning.
“Listen, chum,” he said, without preamble, “I have to talk to the boss, and it irritates him when I make public calls.”
The sleepy man looked at him sleepily. “Senor?”
“Oh come off it. Look, how about we take a walk? Get acquainted a little?”
The sleepy man thought it over. A faint glint showed in his eyes. He shrugged fatalistically, climbed down off the stool, threw a coin on the bar, and followed Johnny into the street.
“I owe you congratulations anyhow,” Johnny said. “I sure as hell thought I’d throw you this morning.”
The man, no longer sleepy, smiled. “It was nothing,” he said proudly. “I have long experience.”
“Damn glad you do,” Johnny said, and meant it. “Look, I wasn’t kiddin’. I want to call your boss. I tried this morning, and he didn’t like me using a public phone, so we couldn’t say much. If you’ll just--”
“But _Senor_--” The man was clearly pained. “If I _could_, I would help you gladly, but I have no means....”
“I’m not asking you to give me your junior G-man kit or wrist radiophone or anything,” Johnny said patiently, “Hell, I don’t _want_ to know what kind of setup you’ve got. Put it this way. I’ll go back in the bar. You get in touch. See what the man says. Tell him I want some private talk, that’s all. Okay?”
The man opened his mouth. “But _Senor_--”
Johnny said, “Fine!” and slapped him briskly on the back. Walked back into the bar, sat down, got one more bottle, and nursed it, like the first three. He would make it last as long as he could. It was the last one, either way. There was too much to do.
Just _what_ was to do, he wasn’t sure yet. The first step was Kutler. After that he’d know. But for Kutler, he needed his wits.
If the sleepy man didn’t show by the time the bottle was gone, he’d have to find some other way to get hold of Phil. Or make up his own mind, without Phil.
But he was goddam tired of sitting around waiting--for nothing. It was just about time to go get--
_What? What you goin’ to get, boy? What’s_ to _get?_
Good question. But it didn’t matter much. Just so long you could sit on your ass, that’s all.
_Rather get knocked onto it, hey, boy?_
Not very damn likely!
_Tough guy! ????_
Maybe.
_Yeh. I remember. Did some fancy gettin’ and goin’ before, hey man?_
He stood up. Carried his bottle to the bar. Stood a moment indecisive. Put the bottle down, waved to the barman and walked out. Find the sleepy man ... find Harbridge ... find Kutler ... find Lee.
And there you were. Simple, when you came right down to it.
Let ’em have their spaceships and cootie-bugs and truth drugs and politics and screw ’em all. Including the pall-bearers. Let ’em play their games. Johnny Wendt didn’t care. Let ’em have anything they wanted, except _one_ thing....
_The one thing is you, Lee. Lisa, Love, Lee, I want you._...
He strode out of the dim bar into the sunlight, arms swinging, teeth white in laughter against the tan of his face. A sad-faced woman in black gown and mantle scurried out of his way, crossing herself fervently.
_Drunk or devil or what?_ he wondered. _What does she think I’ll do? Damn fool dames don’t even know a crazy man from_--
_From what?_--
His laughter shouted in the street.
--_from a crazy-in-love man. That’s what!_
The woman peeked back around the edge of her veil, and her face looked a little less sad.
_If I had a damn rose I’d throw it at her!_
He felt clean all over. Only _where_ in Hell was Sleepy keeping himself?
_Mexcity--Monday, October 3, 1:45_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)
“For you--”
The congressman handed the desk phone to the doctor with as much flourish as if it were a saber or pistol. Phil took it as cautiously.
“Yes?”
“Kutler? This is Jed Harbridge.”
“Oh?”
Then he realized there was no point in playing mum; McLafferty would be recording it all, anyhow.
“Just wanted to let you know: I’ve got an urgent call for you here.”
There was still nothing to say but “Oh?” The more so, knowing Mac _must_ be recording. Let Harbridge decide how much to say; he _knew_ his way around this rat race.
“If you’re not tied up for lunch, maybe you could get over now?”
Phil wished he knew his own way around better; which of these two had sharper teeth? And which was more likely to stick in a fight? And how do you decipher what a man tells you in the presence of the enemy? And was it the enemy, anyhow? It was hard to see any real difference of attitude between the general and the congressman, when you sat in between them, as he literally was doing now.
“You say ‘urgent,’” he formulated carefully. “Does that mean immediate? Or very important?”
“Some of both. It _can_ wait a little. Frankly, I think the immediacy is more on _your_ end. Oh, look, I hate to sound cloak-and-dagger; it’s nothing like that. A personal matter--what you were asking me last night. I’ll be more specific if you like, but I assumed--”
“That’s all right, Jed,” he broke in. At this point, there was just one thing he had to know. And he saw no reason not to ask. “I take it it’s not from the Dome? You said ‘personal’.”
“That’s right.” Jed sounded relieved: presumably he, Phil, now knew what it was all about. He saw no good reason to let Harbridge know that he knew less than ever now. All the personal matters he could think of, right now, were 250,000 miles away....
Except one. But he _knew_ Harbridge wasn’t about to let him talk to John. And if he _was_, why call him _here_ to let him know? That wasn’t it; and it wasn’t from Lisa. So it could wait.
“What time do you go out?” he asked.
“Twelve, twelve-thirty....”
“I’ll try to make it,” Phil said. “I think I can wind things up here pretty soon?” He looked across the desk at McLafferty, who nodded, shrugged, mouthed, _Any time_....
“Right. As soon as you can?”
“Right.”
He handed the phone back. “Seems something’s come up,” he said briskly. “I want to catch Harbridge if I can before he goes out for lunch. So let me jump in with both feet.” He smiled. “I’m not much good at the ringaroundrosy you boys play, anyhow.”
“You do all right,” the congressman said ruefully.
“Thanks. I think. Look, is there still anything you want to ask me? Before we do it in public, I mean?”
“Nothing awfully important. We’ve about covered the ground.”
“Okay. Then there’s something _I_ want to _tell_ you.” He saw the other man brace himself almost imperceptibly, and smiled again. “Relax, man. I didn’t say _tell you off_. I said _tell_. Like, information. What you’re after. Pay dirt, man.”
McLafferty was mentally balancing on the balls of his feet, with both arms up, guarding. _Change of pace_, Phil thought approvingly. _Always works._ Reluctantly, he admitted he could probably get pretty good at this kind of bull if he had to.
“Okay,” Mac said, on balance again. “This is the sure-enough assay office. Let’s see what color your dirt is.”
“I assume anything I tell you here is confidential--I mean as far as the press is concerned?”
“Well, I can’t give you a blanket _yes_ on that. Anything you tell me that bears on the investigation, I can’t keep concealed....”
“I’m not asking that. Put it this way: I have a piece of information I think will be of use to you, and certainly of interest at least. It has nothing to do with anything that’s happened at the Dome--or in connection with the Dome--except that the person it concerns happens to be there.” He stood up, walked to the window. He wasn’t sure enough of his ability to use his face. His voice he could play with skill; but usually people weren’t watching him when he talked. “Frankly,” he said to the window, “I’m telling you this because I believe you’ll feel, as I do, that making it public would do no particular good to anyone, and might do great damage to the person involved. It’s something that could come out easily in the official inquiry, but--”
He had to turn back because this way _he_ couldn’t see the other man.
“--Look, I assume you record conversations here?”
Mac looked pleasantly neutral; made no reply.
“So I know I’m putting myself on a limb when I say this. But I’m hoping that what I tell you will help you decide what questions to ask me tomorrow--or which ones _not_ to ask.” He laughed, a bit nervously and it took no effort to sound that way either. “I guess I better put it on record, after that, that I’m not asking for preferential treatment for myself or anyone else, but merely attempting to provide you with certain background extraneous information which I believe will help you to frame your questions in such a way as to protect innocent persons from unnecessary publicity. Does that cover me?” He tried the laugh again.
“Beautifully. Ever think of going into the law?” McLafferty’s manner was warm, inviting.
“Often. I’ll return the compliment. _You_ ever think about headshrinking?”
There was no perceptible difference in the warmth or sincerity of the laugh. “As a matter of fact--often. From the other end of the couch.”
This man was much more his own type, as a matter of fact, than Jed Harbridge was. But Jed’s type, too--Phil became aware of an unfamiliar sensation of grave respect. The bland-looking man across the desk had _both_ kinds of awareness. _Talk about dangerous men_....
“All right,” Phil said. “I’ve wasted enough time.”
“Just one thing,” Mac broke in.
“Yes?”
“You understand I have made no pledges of silence or secrecy?”
“I do.”
“Okay. Shoot.”
“What I wanted to tell you is simply that Lisa Trovi is pregnant.”
It was heart warming to see it register. _Bland_, hey? About as bland, behind the meringue face, as baked hot peppers....
“Man, you don’t think I can--?”
“About _six months_ pregnant,” Phil said. He waited for the meaning to sink in, and added, “Well, five and a half.”
McLafferty smiled, but it was weak. “Wendt, I suppose?”
Phil shrugged. “The lady won’t say.” He managed to make it quite lewd. Mac’s eyebrows shot up briefly.
“Well,” said the congressman, “I see what you mean. I’m not sure--”
_Busy brain whirring away_, thought Phil admiringly.
“--You understand, I’ll have to give this some careful thought. Offhand, I don’t see how it really concerns this investigation, but--”
_But you see all that lovely black ink, don’t you, man?_
“--I’ll tell you one thing. I wish to Christ I could talk to Wendt. This damfool hiding-out doesn’t accomplish anything.”
_Oh, no, Mac! Really! How much do you think you can do me for?_ And then, startled, he thought: _Well, whaddya know? Ole doc’s ego acting up! At this stage yet_.... And finally, amused: _Got to see my psychiatrist about_ that!
“Wish I could help you,” he said smoothly. “Frankly, I’d like to get my hands on that boy myself.” He reached out his hand. “Well, I hope you’ll see this thing the way I do, when you’ve thought it out. I better haul out of here now. Can’t hold up the whole Decagon.”
The only thing that bothered him when he left was that he might have underestimated Lisa’s effect--again. McLafferty ought to be arrow-proof; but so should a lot of others. Who weren’t.
_Mexcity--Monday, October 3, 1:45_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)
He parked right inside the Decagon lot, and to hell with them all. If they tapped him now, they would, and that was that.
But he knew it was damned unlikely they’d have a paper waiting for him here.
He had no trouble getting to Harbridge either. He showed the guards and the secretaries the same thing: his face and a five-dollar bill. He was upstairs in ten minutes flat, with the private secretary.
She was new. He said patiently, “Please just buzz and say, ‘Johnny’s here.’ That’s all.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll have to have your full name.”
“Let’s say I’m his long-lost son. Johnny Harbridge, okay?” Why not just _tell_ her? He didn’t know.
“Oh, Mr. Prentiss--I wonder if you could--”
Johnny looked at the smooth-young-man who had just entered. The smooth-young-man looked at him, got noticeably ruffled around the edges, and said, “Just a minute, Glory. You--er--What can I do for you, Colonel? I’m Al Prentiss, the General’s Press Secretary.”
“Pleased to meet you, Al. I was trying to persuade the young lady that the General would want to see me--since I’m here, I mean.”
“I imagine he would,” Prentiss said, deadpan. “If you’ll wait just a _moment_, I’ll let him know....”
He went through a door across the room.
Johnny waited.
He got tired of waiting, and followed through the door.
Prentiss. Harbridge. Kutler.
“Well,” he said. “Old Home Day. All we need now is Chris.”
“All right, John,” Harbridge said wearily. “What are you trying to do?”
“Brace yourself,” Johnny said. “Especially you, Doc. Sit down. It’ll be a shock.” He strode to the desk and looked straight at Harbridge. “I’m trying to find out how I can get to the Moon.”
The General shook his head. “You do need Chris then. I can’t authorize it.”
_You’re full of bull._ “Oh?” He turned to Phil. “All right. Who authorizes trips down? You or Chris? I--don’t think the environment up there is quite right for Lee.”
Phil shrugged. He was good at it. “Tell _her_,” he said.
Johnny looked from the doctor to the general and back again. No point in crawling. Both men were set. He felt the inviting ache in his shoulder, and set it aside. If he was sure Prentiss would stay out of it.... He could clean up the other two without getting winded....
Good thing Prentiss was there. Just as well.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll _do_ that.”
He started out.
“Colonel Wendt?”
He turned, half-way. Bully-boy Prentiss. “Yeah?”
“I just thought I’d mention--the backroom boys think it’s pretty sure she’s subpoenaed. That would mean she’d be down next trip anyhow.”
_Pacifier?_ He didn’t think so, somehow. The guy almost seemed human.
“Thanks,” he said. “I didn’t think of that.”
_New York--Monday, October 3, 7_ P.M. (_E.D.S.T._)
The city hadn’t changed; it was he who had.
Such a short time--and actually, very little had happened. _Very little. Sure. You just went right out of this world._
So: two years later--damn near--the doctor gets around to knowing what the man meant. Phil marveled, not for the first time, at the ease with which we assume communication; fool ourselves into the oddly arrogant delusion that we have heard, that we know, understand, even share, the consciousness of our fellowman.
Phil Kutler walked the streets of the city he loved, and felt _bruised_. Everywhere were barriers. Walls: not only of brick and stone and wood, but walls of tougher, harder, more hurtful, flesh and blood and emotion.
He wished, wished with all his heart, fervently, that someone in all the millions of his city, could _hear him_ now--as he, finally, _heard_ Johnny Wendt....
“_Mars is heaven, that’s what_....”
As he had _heard_ Lisa--what was it? Four weeks--One month ago? It seemed hardly possible--and _understood_ that her need was not his own desire. Understood it, and still desired--hell, still _loved_!
It was, looking back on it, highly improbable. _I am not that big a man_, he told himself soberly. And it was true. But he _had_ been. Then. _There._
Maybe Johnny was right. Maybe men ought to stay where they acted like men....
_No!_
_No, damn it, Johnny was wrong! As wrong as a man_ CAN _be_. “_Something up there makes us love_,” he paraphrased nervously, and admitted it frightened him, and stopped fearing it.
_If anyone was right, Doug was!_
He laughed. It was that simple. _Just that simple._ No one would ever believe it, but he was deeply sure. He knew, because he was certain it was exactly what _he_ would have done.
A stiff-backed, powder-caked claw-fingered female, rushing on tight-toed stilt heels, miscalculated; a bony shoulder knifed his bicep; a sharp elbow rose reflexively, caught him in the chest.
“Whyncha look wareyagone?” she shrieked.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. And wondered what Moon-change would happen to _her_, if she could go too?
Wondered, more practically, if that odd feeling of kinship with McLafferty meant the other man had felt it too? Smiled, thinking: _All that work and sweat. And suppose the big oaf has turned into a gentleman?_
It wouldn’t matter much. Actually, all the sweat had not been needed. Johnny was already on his way.
_Damned rude of him not to wait for me to push_, Phil thought, delighted.