Now Wait for Last Year Page 12

  'Yes,' Kathy answered. 'And in addition later on it'll stop the Nazis.' As she boarded the cab she said to the group of people who had cautiously formed around the cab at a safe distance, 'Keep the date December 7, 1941, in mind; it'll be a day to remember.' She closed the cab door. 'Let's go. I could tell those people so much ... but it seems hardly worth it. A bunch of Middle Western hicks.' This town, she decided, lay either in Kansas or Missouri, from the looks of it. Frankly, it repelled her.

  The cab dutifully ascended.

  The 'Starmen should see Kansas in 1935, she said to herself. If they did they might not care to take over Terra; it might not seem worth it.

  To the cab she said, 'Land in a pasture. We'll sit it out until we're back in our own time period.' It probably would not be long, now; she had an impression of a devouring insubstanti-ality here in this era – the reality outside the cab had gained a gaseous quality which she recognized from her previous encounter with the drug.

  'Are you joking?' the cab said. 'Is it actually possible that we—'

  'The problem,' she said tartly, 'is not in returning to our own time; the problem is finding a way to stay under the drug's influence until something of worth can be accomplished.' The time was just not long enough.

  'What drug, miss?'

  'None of your goddam business,' Kathy said. 'You nosy autonomic nonentity with your big prying circuits all opened up and flapping.' She lit a cigarette and leaned back against the seat, feeling weary. It had been a tough day and she knew, with acuity, that more lay ahead.

  * * *

  The sallow-faced young man, who oddly enough already possessed a conspicuous paunch, as if physically yielding to the more lush pleasures at this, the planet's financial and political capital, shook Eric Sweetscent's hand damply and said, 'I'm Don Festenburg, doctor. It's good to hear you're joining us. How about an old-fashioned?'

  'No thanks,' Eric said. There was something about Festenburg which he did not care for, but he could not put his finger on it. Despite his obesity and bad complexion Festenburg seemed friendly enough, and certainly he was competent; the latter alone counted, after all. But – Eric pondered as he watched Festenburg mix himself his drink. Perhaps it's because I don't think anyone should speak for the Secretary, he decided. I'd resent anyone who holds the job Festenburg does.

  'Since we're alone,' Festenburg said, glancing around the room, 'I'd like to suggest something that may make me more, palatable to you.' He grinned knowingly. 'I can tell what your feelings are; I'm sensitive, doctor, even if I'm the pyknic body-type. Suppose I suggested that an elaborate ruse has been carried off successfully, convincing even you. The flabby, aging, utterly discouraged and hypochondriacal Gino Molinari whom you've met and accepted as the authentic UN Secretary—' Festenburg lazily stirred his drink, eyeing Eric. 'That's the robant simulacrum. And the robust, energetic figure you witnessed on video tape a short while ago is the living man. And this ruse must necessarily be maintained, of course, to sidetrack no one else but our beloved ally, the 'Starmen.'

  'What?' Startled, he gaped. 'Why would—'

  'The 'Starmen consider us harmless, unworthy of their military attention, only .so long as our leader is palpably feeble. Quite visibly unable to discharge his responsibilities – in other words, in no sense a rival to them, a threat.'

  After a pause Eric said, 'I don't believe this.'

  'Well,' Festenburg said, shrugging, 'it's an interesting idea from the ivory tower, intellectual standpoint. Don't you agree?' He walked toward Eric, swirling the contents of his glass. Standing very close to him, Festenburg breathed his noxious breath into Eric's face and said, 'It could be. And until you actually subject Gino to an intensive physical examination you won't know, because everything in that file you read – it could all be faked. Designed to validate a gross, well-worked-out swindle.' His eyes twinkled with merciless amusement. 'You think I'm out of my mind? I'm just playing, like a schizoid, with ideas for the fun of it, without regard to their actual consequences? Maybe so. But you can't prove what I just now told you is untrue, and as long as this remains the case—' He took a massive swallow of his drink, then made a face. 'Don't deplore what you saw on that Ampex video tape. Okay?'

  'But as you say,' Eric said, 'I'll know as soon as I have a chance to examine him.' And, he thought, that will come soon. 'So if you'll excuse me I'd like to end this conversation. I haven't yet had time to set up my conapt here satisfactorily.'

  'Your wife – what's her name? Kathy? – isn't coming, is she?' Don Festenburg winked. 'You can enjoy yourself. I'm in a position to give you a hand. That's my department, the land of the illicit, the feral, and the – let's just call it the peculiar. Instead of the unnatural. But you come from Tijuana; I probably can't teach you a thing.'

  Eric said, 'You can teach me to deplore not only what I saw on the video tape but—' He broke off. Festenburg's personal life was, after all, his own business.

  'But its creator as well,' Festenburg finished for him. 'Doctor, did you know that in the Middle Ages the ruling courts had people who lived in bottles. Spent their entire lives ... all shrunken, of course, put in while babies, allowed to grow – to some extent, anyhow – within the bottle. We don't have that now. However – Cheyenne is the contemporary ranking seat of kings; there are a few sights that could be shown you, if you're interested. Perhaps from the purely medical standpoint — a sort of professional, disinterested—'

  'I think whatever it is you want to show me would only make me less pleased with my decision to come to Cheyenne,' Eric said. 'So frankly I don't see what profit it would serve.'

  'Wait,' Festenburg said, holding up his hand. 'One item. Just this particular exhibit, all properly sealed hermetically, bathed in a solution that maintains the thing ad infinitum, or, as you probably will prefer, ad nauseam. May I take you there? It's in what we at the White House call Room 3-C.' Festenburg walked to the door, held it open for Eric.

  After a pause Eric followed.

  Hands in the pockets of his rumpled, unpressed trousers, Festenburg led the way down one corridor after another until at last they stood on a subsurface level, facing two high-ranking Secret Service men stationed at a metal reinforced door marked TOP SECRET, NO UNAUTHORIZED PERSONNEL PERMITTED.

  'I'm authorized,' Festenburg said genially. 'Gino's given me the run of the warren; he has great trust in me, and because of this you're going to see a state secret which you normally would never in a thousand years be allowed to view.' As he passed by the uniformed Secret Service men and pushed open the door he added, 'However, there will be one disappointing aspect of this; I'm going to show it to you but not explain it. I'd like to explain it but – very simply I can't.'

  In the center of the murky, cold room Eric saw a casket. As Festenburg had said, it was hermetically sealed; a pump throbbed dully, at its task of maintaining at extreme low temperatures whatever lay within the casket.

  'Look at it,' Festenburg said sharply.

  Deliberately pausing, Eric lit a cigarette, then walked over.

  In the casket, supine, lay Gino Molinari, his face locked in agony. He was dead. Blood could be seen, dried drops on his neck. His uniform was torn, stained with mud. Both hands were lifted, the fingers writhing, as if trying even now to fight back at whatever — whoever – it was that had murdered him. Yes, Eric thought. I'm seeing the results of an assassination; this is the leader's corpse, flailed with bullets emanating from a weapon with notably high muzzle velocity; the man's body had been twisted, almost torn apart. It had been a savage assault. And – successful.

  'Well,' Festenburg said, after a time, taking in a deep rush of breath, 'there are several ways this item – which I like to think of as Exhibit One of the Cheyenne Freak Show – can be explained. Let's assume it's a robant. Waiting here in the wings for the moment that Gino needs it. Built by GRS Enterprises, the inventive Dawson Cutter, whom you must meet someday.'

  'Why would Molinari need this?'

  Festenburg, scratching
his nose, said, 'Several reasons. In case of an attempted assassination – one which failed – this could be exhibited, taking the heat off Gino while he hid out. Or – it could be for the benefit of our sanguine ally; Gino may have it in the back of his mind that some incredibly complex, baroque plan will be necessary, something involving his retirement from office under the pressure they're exerting on him.'

  'You're sure this is a robant?' To Eric the thing in the casket looked real.

  'I don't even think it is, let alone know.' Festenburg jerked his head and Eric saw that the two Secret Service men had entered the room; obviously it would not be possible to inspect the corpse.

  'How long has it been here?'

  'Only Gino knows and he won't say; he just smiles slyly. "You wait, Don," he says in his secretive fashion. "I got a big use for it."'

  'And if it's not a robant—'

  Then it's Gino Molinari lying there ripped apart by machine-gun slugs. A primitive, outmoded weapon but it certainly can kill its victim beyond the possibility of even org-trans repair; you can see that the brain case has been punctured – the brain is destroyed. If it is Gino, then where's it from? The future? There is a theory, having to do with your firm, TF&D. A subsidiary has developed a drug which permits its user to move freely in time. You know about that?' He studied Eric intently.

  'No,' Eric admitted. The rumor was more or less new to him.

  'Anyhow, here's this corpse,' Festenburg said. 'Lying here day after day, driving me nuts. Perhaps it's from an alternate present in which Gino has been assassinated, driven out of office the hard way by a splinter political group of Terrans backed by Lilistar. But there's a further ramification of this theory, one which really haunts me.' Festenburg's tone now was somber; he was no longer in a joking mood. 'That would imply something about the virile, strutting Gino Molinari who made that video tape; that's not a robant either and GRS Enterprises did not manufacture it because it too is an authentic Gino Molinari from an alternate present. One in which war didn't come about, one perhaps in which Terra didn't even get mixed up with Lilistar. Gino Molinari has gone into a more reassuring world and plucked his healthy counterpart over here to assist him. What do you think, doctor? Could that be it?'

  Baffled, Eric said, 'If I knew anything about that drug—'

  'I assumed you would. I'm disappointed; that was my reason for bringing you here. Anyhow – there's one other possibility... logically. Suggested by this assassinated corpse, here.' Festenburg hesitated. 'I hate to mention it because it's so bizarre that it makes my other conjectures look tainted by association.'

  'Go head,' Eric said tightly.

  'There is no Gino Molinari.'

  Eric grunted. Good grief, he thought.

  'All of them are robants. The healthy one who's on the video tape, the tired, sick one you've met, this dead one here in the casket – that somebody, possibly GRS Enterprises, engineered this to keep the 'Starmen from taking over our planet. So far they've made use of the ill one.' Festenburg gestured. 'And now they've hauled out the healthy one, made the first tape of him. And there may be more. Logically, why not? I've even tried to imagine what other alternatives might be like. You tell me. In addition to the three we know, what's left?'

  Eric said, 'Obviously it leaves the possibility of building one with powers above the norm. Beyond the merely healthy.' He thought, then, of Molinari's recovery from one terminal illness after another. 'But maybe we have that already. Have you read the medical file?'

  'Yes.' Festenburg nodded. 'And there's one very interesting .quality about it. None of the tests were conducted by any persons now on his medical staff. Teagarden didn't authorize any of them; the tests predate him, and as far as I know, Teagarden, like yourself, has never managed to subject Gino to even a cursory physical exam. Nor do I think he ever will. Nor do I think you ever will, doctor. Even if you're kept around here for years.'

  'Your mind,' Eric said, 'is certainly hyperactive.'

  'Am I a glandular case?'

  'That has no bearing on the matter. But you certainly have spun a lot of ad hoc ideas out of your own head.'

  'Based on facts,' Festenburg pointed out. 'I want to know what Gino is up to. I think he's one hell of a smart man. I think he can outthink the 'Starmen any day of the week, and if he had the economic resources and the population behind him that they have, he'd be in the driver's seat, no contest. As it is, he's in charge of one dinky planet and they have a system-wide empire of twelve planets and eight moons. It's frankly a wonder he's been able to accomplish all he has. You know, doctor, you're here to find out what's making Gino sick. I say that's not the issue. It's obvious what's making him sick: the whole darn situation. The real question is: What's keeping him alive? That's the real mystery. The miracle.'

  'I guess you're right.' Grudgingly, he had to admit that despite his repellent qualities Festenburg was intelligent and original; he had managed to see the problem properly. No wonder Molinari had hired him.

  'You've met the schoolgirl shrew?'

  'Mary Reineke?' Eric nodded.

  'Christ, here's this tragic, complicated mess, this sick man barely making it through the day with the weight of the world, of Terra itself, on his back, knowing he's losing the war, knowing the reegs are going to get us if by some miracle Lilistar doesn't – and in addition he's got Mary on his back. And the final blistering irony is that Mary, by being a shrew and simple-minded, selfish, demanding, and anything else you want to articulate as a basic character defect – she does have him on his feet; you've seen her get him out of bed and back into uniform, functioning again. Do you know anything about Zen, doctor? This is a Zen paradox, because from a logical standpoint Mary ought to have been the final straw that utterly destroyed Gino. It makes you rethink the entire role of adversity in human life. To tell you the truth, I detest her. She detests me, too, naturally. Our only working connection is through Gino; we both want him to make it.'

  'Has she been shown the video tape of the healthy Molinari?'

  Festenburg glanced up swiftly. 'A wise thought. Has Mary seen the tape? Yes, maybe or no – check one. Not to my knowledge. But if you suppose my alternate-present theory, and that it's not a robant on that tape, if it's a human being, that magnetic, fire-eating, striving demigod, and if Mary catches sight of it – you can assume the following: the other Molinaris will disappear. Because what you saw on that tape is exactly what Mary Reineke wants — insists — that Gino be.'

  It was an extraordinary thought. Eric wondered if Gino was aware of this aspect of the situation; if so, it might explain why he had waited so long to employ this tactic.

  'I wonder,' he said to Festenburg, 'how the sick Gino, whom we know, could be a robant, in view of Mary Reineke's existence.'

  'How so? Why not?'

  'To put it in delicate terms ... wouldn't Mary be somewhat peeved by being the mistress of a product of GRS Enterprises?'

  'I'm getting tired, doctor,' Festenburg said. 'Let's write finis to this discussion – you go and fix up your swinkly new conapt which they've donated to you for your loyal services here at Cheyenne.' He moved toward the door; the two top-position Secret Service men stepped aside.

  Eric said, 'I'll give you one opinion of my own. Having met Gino Molinari I refuse to believe GRS could construct something so human and—'

  'But you haven't met the one they filmed,' Festenburg said quietly. 'It's interesting, doctor. By drawing on himself from the alternates contained in the mishmash of time Gino may have collected an ensemble capable of facing the ally. Three or four Gino Molinaris, forming a committee, would be rather formidable... don't you agree? Think of the combined ingenuity; think of the harebrained, clever, wild schemes they could hatch up working collectively.' As he opened the door he added, 'You've met the sick one and glimpsed the well one – weren't you impressed?'

  'Yes,' Eric admitted.

  'Would you now vote with those who want to see him sacked? And yet when you try to pin down what he's actually do
ne that's so impressive – it isn't there. If we were winning the war, or forcing back Lilistar's investment of our planet... but we're not. So what is it specifically, doctor, that Gino's done that so impresses you? Tell me.' He waited.

  'I – guess I can't say specifically. But—'

  A White House employee, a uniformed robant, appeared and confronted Eric Sweetscent. 'Secretary Molinari has been looking for you, doctor. He's waiting to see you in his office; I'll lead the way.'

  'Oops,' Festenburg said, chagrined and all at once quite nervous. 'Evidently I kept you too long.'

  Without a further exchange Eric followed the robant up the corridor to the elevator. This was probably important; he had that intuition.

  In his office Molinari sat in a wheel chair, a blanket over his lap, his face gray and sunken. 'Where were you?' he said, as Eric came into sight. 'Well, it doesn't matter; listen, doctor – 'Starmen have called a conference and I want you to be with me while I attend. I want you to be on hand constantly, just in case. I'm not feeling well and I wish this damn get-together could be avoided or at least postponed for a few weeks. But they insist.' He began to wheel himself from the office. 'Come on. It's going to start any time.'

  'I met Don Festenburg.'

  'Brilliant rat, isn't he? I put complete faith in our eventual success in him. What did he show you?'

  It seemed unreasonable to tell Molinari that he had been viewing his corpse, especially in view of the fact that the man had just now said he did not feel well. So Eric merely said, 'He took me around the building.'

  'Festenburg has the run of the place – because of the trust I put in him.' At a bend in the corridor a gang of stenographers, translators, State Department officials, and armed guards met Molinari; his wheel chair disappeared into the corporate body and did not reappear. Eric, however, could still hear him talking away, explaining what lay ahead. 'Freneksy is here. So this is going to be rough. I have an idea what they want, but we'll have to wait and see. Better not to anticipate; that way you do their work for them, you sort of turn on yourself and do yourself in.'