“Yes.” Danty turned away and pulled open the small built-in closet where his clothes were stored. “And you know something? 1 want out.”
“Where to? Africa? Look what happened to the people who went there in the black exodus!”
“No, just out,” Danty said. His voice, still barely above a `whisper, suddenly became level and determined. “Any place where this fucking talent would have something solid to work on, instead of walking me into trouble all the time!”
1 XX
“That you. Morton?” Fenella Clarke called as she heard the key clicking in the door. A microphone beside her chair picked up her voice-being directionalised. it did not blur the question by also picking up the sound from the TV she was watching-and conveyed it to the entrance foyer.
“Who the hell else are you expecting who can get through these locks?” her husband retorted. There was a mike focused on him, too.
When she married him, she had thought it romantic, in some indefinable way, to have captured one of the brightest up-and-coming young experts who had undertaken that toughest of all varieties of law-enforcement work: policing the very minds of disloyal citizens. And her confidence had been amply repaid in material terms. Less than five years after their meeting, he had been in a position to buy into the Lakonia towers, and this apartment was among the choicest. with a superb view on every side.
The kind of thing she had not foreseen . . .
Well, that mike beside her chair was an example. (Remembering, she said to it meekly, “Just a figure of speech, honey, you know thatl” And heard a grunt by way of response.) The whole place was riddled, permeated, infested with bugs. Electronic type. Mostly newly developed gadgetry that he was field-testing, because his profession was also his hobby.
And, above all, she had never in her life imagined the penalties she was going to have to pay for her comfort. In her memory, she marked the turning-point by Morton's decision to have a separate bedroom in their Lakonia apartment-not by the acquisition of the apartment itself. It was at that stage that he had reached he point where a security force executive began to worry about talking in his sleep. At least, that was what she had worked out in discussions with her friend Avice Donnelly, who was married to a senior plant security officer for Energetics General and hence was regarded as a proper person for Morton Clarke's wife to befriend.
She didn't actually like Avice. She found her bitchy, overfond of gossip and especially of scandal, and given to nursing ridiculous grudges, sometimes for years on end.' But one couldn't get along with no friends whatever. Just couldn't! No matter how often Morton indicated that that was the way he would have preferred it.
Every promotion seemed to make things worse. Back when he was a mere agent, and they had been courting, he had appeared to get some kind of fun out of his work. That was something she could understand, even appreciate. There was a quality akin to fencing in the person-to-person duels of a subversive and a security agent, and when the results were in, one could stand back and look at the ingenuity that had led to the d6nouement with honest admiration. “He thought that we would think . . .” Only: “We realized he would think that we would think . .. .”
And he'd been promoted to the next grade, keeper, and she'd accepted his proposal of marriage on the spot. He'd been so overjoyed, it was infectiousl
The rot set in later. She found out.about his promotion to acting bailiff by chance, weeks after it was authorised . . . then to substantive bailiff only when she answered a call on the secure line while they were discussing the household accounts . . .
She had barely dared to mention all this to anyone except Avice, because if Morton felt he had to keep such data from his wife, how could she talk about it with anyone else?
And, naturally, there was the problem of children. Fenella had hoped to have at least one-people felt that was okay-and had looked forward to the baby's arrival. Except Morton refused to co-operate. A child was vulnerable to being kidnapped by subversives.
She had asked about divorce when that episode overtook her. And been refused. Flatly. No.
And tomorrow, like Avice, she had meant to pour out her heart to this wonderful woman, this Magda Hansen, who was so sympathetic and understanding and made such fabulous suggestions for getting around obstinate husbands, and . .
How the hell had Avice brought herself to consult Mrs. Hansen, anyway? Avice with her impenetrable shell of
self-possession, her tinkly laugh, her air of not giving a fart about anyone or anything-she must have been driven to the breaking-point.
Come to think of it, 1 haven't heard from her in over three weeks! I should have called up. . .
She reached for a cigarette, the latest of far too many today, and glanced towards the door. Wasn't Morton going to come in?
Obviously not. But then, he so often didn't, Just made straight for his den, which she was forbidden to enter unless he was present.
One of these days I'm going to walk in there and smear shit all over all the things he prizes more than me. And then I'll shoot myself right in the middle of it, the messiest way possible, through the roof of my mouth. See how he likes coming home and finding that lot to clear up!
She turned her attention, with an effort, back to the TV, knowing at the bottom of her mind that she never would.
Stomach grumbling from the sandwich and glass of milk he had gulped down on his way home, at the wrong time owing to his hasty departure from California-at least as far as his metabolism was concerned-Morton Clarke wiped his face as he entered his den and closed the door. Tight. With a careful double-check of the locks.
Should have remained a bachelor. No life for a married man, my career.
But, having married, one must stay married. They were instantly suspicious, in the security force, of anyone who changed his mind on such an important matter . . .
He sat down before his desk, which was more of an electronic console because this was his only permissible outlet for personal initiative once he had dedicated his life to the security of his country. Sometimes he thought of himself as akin to a mediaeval monk, sustained only by recollection of a pledge he had given while in full and sober possession of his faculties when the Rule of his order became intolerable. Yes; he must not give way to private preferences, to personal predilections. This afternoon, at the reserved area, he had come perilously close to doing so when he picked up that rock and .uttered that fierce remark to Turpin: “Did you see that go into orbit?”
What went into orbit, these days, from the United States, was the minimum necessary to preserve the nation from the unceasing hostility of the rest of the world: That had been drilled into him ever since back in college, he had first become aware of the b,wReoning commitment within his mind, and realized he was going to find fulfilment only in working for the safety and salvation of his native land.
He raised his eyes to the one item he permitted to decorate his sanctum. It wasn't-as one might have expected-Old Gory. or even a photo of Prexy. He knew too much about the workings of modern American government to have chosen anything of that sort. No: He had fixed to the wall where he could see it any time he looked up something that reminded him of the penalities you had to pay for freedom: a newspaper cutting, glassed and framed from the Chinese official Paper Red Ranner. and it showed a North Vietnamese official press photo of a captured American plot being led on a rope halter through the streets of Hanoi. He couldn't read the caption but a friend of his had translated it for him. and a tvped summary had been pasted "nder the actual cutting. it said that because this man had committed the crime of bombing Angkor Wat he was plainly a hopeless case for re-education-quote/unquote-and hence had been condemned to public ignominy.