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"Why wasn't I told about this before?"
"Don't look so indignant. People will notice. Because there was no need for it. You know we try to
keep all communication at a minimum. I was the only one to hear about Castor from Atlas, and that was
at parties or social functions and not much was said about it then."
Tony was silent for a moment. Then she leaned forward again and spoke even more softly.
"The orders are to stone him and hide the body if it's possible. If not, kill him."
Caird gave a slight start, and he sighed.
"I knew it would come to this someday."
"I hate it," Tony said. "But it's for the common good."
"Of the immers, you mean."
"Everybody's. Castor is hopelessly insane, and he's dangerous to anyone who gets in his way."
"I've never killed anybody," Caird said.
"You can do it. I can do it."
He shook his head. "Our psych tests showed that we could, but they're not one hundred percent
accurate. I won't know until I either must do it or can't do it."
"You will. You'll catch him, and you'll do what must be done. Listen, Jeff..
She put one hand on his and stared into his eyes. He stiffened.
"I...,,
She cleared her throat.
"I got the decision on ... Arid ... from the council today. I'm sorry, really sorry, Jeff. But . .
"She's been rejected!"
She nodded. "They say she's too unstable. The psych projection is that she'd be burdened with too
much social conscience. She'd break eventually and confess all to the authorities. Or, if she didn't, she'd
have a mental breakdown."
"They don't really know, they don't really know," he murmured.
"They know enough. They can't take the chance."
"There's no use appealing right now," he said harshly. "Not in a case like this. Tell me. Was the
decision final or will they reconsider in five years? After all, Arid's only twenty. She could mature."
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"You can try again then. The psych projection, however. .
"That's enough," he said. "Are you finished?"
"Please, Jeff. It's not that bad. Arid will be just as happy if she isn't an immer."
"I won't, but I suppose that doesn't matter. They reject Ozma and now Arid."
"You knew that might happen when you became one. Everything was laid out for you."
"Is that all? You're done?"
"Kill the messenger who brings bad news. Come on, Jeff!"
He patted her hand. "You're right, I'm wrong. It's just that
I feel so bad for her."
"And for you."
"Yes. May I leave now?"
"Yes. Oh, Jeff. Don't cry!"
He pulled a tissue from his shoulderbag and wiped the tears.
"I think you want to be alone for a while, Jeff."
She rose, and he got up from his chair. She preceded him, since her rank was higher. When she
stopped so the data clerk could put the bill into her ID star, he went on, saying softly, "I'll see you, Tony."
"Don't forget to report," she called after him.
He asked through his wrist radio for an organic-car ride back to the station. Told he would have to
wait twenty minutes for one, he flagged down a cab. So it would cost him a few credits. After he got in,
though, he wished that he had waited. He was
losing the battle to hold back more tears; he could have let loose in the unchauffeured vehicle.
By the time he arrived at the station, he was dry-eyed. He went to his office and reported to
Wallenquist, who was curious about his meeting with Horn but did not dare ask too many questions.
Gril had disappeared as completely as if he had slipped down into the ancient abandoned
subway-sewer system. Which he might have done. Ten patrollers and a sergeant were searching for him
now in the deepest known area beneath Yeshiva University. So far, they had found only a bashed-in
human skull, which did not look fresh, some huge rats, and two almost unreadable lines in
twenty-first-century spelling on a wall.
I HATE GRAFFITI
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I DO TOO AND HIS BROTHER LUIGI IS A REAL PRICK.
Rootenbeak had escaped like a rabbit into a briar patch.
His relief, Detective-Inspector Barnewolt, came in at three. Caird brought her up to date, and they
talked for a while about the efforts by the young to bring back into fashion the wearing of trousers.
"I don't like them," Barnewolt said. "The kind of pants they're wearing, they're too tight, too
form-fitting. I tried on some, and they made me feel embarrassed. I don't know. There's something
immoral about them."
Caird laughed, and he said, "Wednesday, I hear, has been wearing pants for some time now, both
young and old."
Barnewolt shrugged. "Well, you know how those people are."
6.
Caird rode his bicycle home, checked in on Ozma at her studio, found her painting a wasp, and went
into the house. After watching a news report-nothing new-he went into the basement and worked out on
the exerciser. He showered and put on a white sheer blouse, an orange waistband, a removable white
neck-ruff, and an emerald-green kilt. When Ozma came in, he had her paint his legs yellow. His
curled-toe ankle-high shoes were crimson. After they ate, he put on some lipstick and selected a
wide-brimmed hat with a high conical top sporting a crimson artificial feather.
Ozma wore a white cap with a long red bill, factory-grown eagle feathers dangling from holders in
her earlobes, green eye makeup, green lipstick, rouged cheeks, a 1oose sheer blouse, a shimmering
green hooped skirt that reached to her ankles, sequined red stockings, and Kelly-green high-heeled
shoes. Many finger rings and a scarlet umbrella completed her ensemble.
"Where's yours?" she said.
"My what?"
"Your umbrella."
"The weathercaster said it wasn't going to rain."
"You know what I mean," she said. "Umbrellas are obligatory for evening wear."
"I suppose it'll make you unhappy if I don't take one."
"Not unhappy. I'll just feel embarrassed."
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"And you're the wild unconventional artist," he said. "Very well."
At seven, they left the house, each carrying a big shoulderbag, and they got into a taxi. By the time
they arrived, the huge museum lobby was packed with guests, all holding cocktails or stronger drinks,
standing in close groups and chattering or wandering from group to group. The phatic lines of
communion, as a twentieth-century anthropologist had called them, were functioning well. Everybody
was talking and nobody was listening.
After greeting their hosts, Caird and Wang joined a gaggle of Goalists. Bored by them, Caird went to
a pride of Pressurists and Ozma to a soup of Supernaturalists. The latter group was not painters [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]