And here 1 am being polite to a stupid old woman because 1 have to maintain my cover. Am 1 crazy?
The conviction began to grow in his mind.
Yes. Absolutely crazy.
He looked now and then out of the corner of his eye at the smugly self-satisfied Mrs. Gleewood, as though he were an executioner measuring someone in advance for a garrotte.
It fitted. It all hung together. Morton Clarke didn't want to have to believe it, but in the end . . .
He looked, one final time, at the chart he had drawn on his notepad, linked with arrows: FENELLA CLARKE to MAGDA HANSEN to DANTY WARD to LORA TURPIN to-
No, it had to stop there. It mustn't go onl Mustn't) Bocause somewhere along the line, maybe three stops from now, the chain of reasoning would close, and the name would be his own: MORTON CLARKE.
It had to be broken before it was allowed to extend that far. No one could accuse him of treason.
Slowly, like a martyr hearing the call for his turn at the Colosseum, he rose from his chair and felt inside his jacket for his gun. Government issue. Got to be proved worthy of it. Immediately, before anyone else saw the connections he had just worked out.
He went into the adjacent room, where Fenella was watching Channel 8-no, correction, Channel 9, must have changed over when the commercials came on . . .
“Hi, Mort honey,” she said. “Come sit downl What you been doing all this time?”
“Traitor,” he said.
“What?”
“Traitor) Fucking traitorl Fucking commie)”
Bang. Bang. Bang-bang-bang-bang.
The gun was empty. Government issue. Six official shells expended. Have to account for them. One should have been enough if he'd come close enough to make it tell. How to explain to the authorities those five wasted shots?
He sat down beside the chair that her blood was soaking and began to cry, quite unable to think of an excuse. XX1~ .
What in hell have 1 wandered into?
Sheklov's mind rang with that question. But be had no choice about complying, short of seizing the dashboard gun and holding it to Magda's side.
At the same time, however, a curious exaltation filled him. Suppose-just suppose-that by pure chance he had already stumbled on what he had been looking for: that “different attitude of mind” that Bratcheslavsky had been so insistent about . . .
Where the behaviour of Danty and Magda had relevance to that alien ship sparkling against the stars, he could not guess. Nonetheless, he was willing for the time being to yield to whatever he was told, although he was simultaneously worried about what would happen to his cover as a Canadian if security's attention were drawn to him.
Hunched forward on the rear seat, speaking almost in Sheklov's ear, Danty said, “No, not this turn-go two more blocks, then make a right. Then we'll come down our street on the side farther from the apartment, and we'll get a clearer sight of what's happening.”
“What do you think is happening?” countered Sheklov in his best Holtzer manner. “I can't see any point to this-”
“Nonsense?” Magda interrupted. “Don, rve known Danty a long, long time. Like I told you, he was born at the wrong end of time. He can feel things that haven't happened yet.”
“So why didn't he dodge the guy with the knife?” Sheklov retorted.
There was a short silence. Magda turned around in her seat and looked at Danty.
Finally Danty said, “Because if I hadn't been where they caught up with me, I wouldn't have found out something very important.”
“Danty, what are you talking about?” Lora demanded.
Almost in the same moment, Magda said, “Danty, are you-?”
“Sure I'm surel” he snapped. “It's been getting stronger for several minutes now. I've never had it so strong in my life. Right here, Don, and right again. Around the corner, take it as slow as you can.”
Lora said after a short pause, “I keep some binocs in the glove compartment-do you want them?”
“Yeahl” Danty sat up straight. “Mag', pass them to Mel”
She pulled open the glove compartment and found them, a cheap Mexican pair in a plastic case. He took them and held them ready as Sheklov made the final turn into their home street. At once he let out a hissing breath.
“Lookl” he rapped, and set the glasses to his eyes.
Glancing rapidly from the traffic around to the landing, up close to the hoverhalt, from which access to Magda's home was obtained, Sheklov felt a pang of horror. The door was wide open. The window was lighted. Two men were standing guard, suspiciously eying passengers descending from a recently arrived hovercar, and apparently giving off some sort of repellent aura, because these passengers were keeping their distance.
Also-and this gave him an excuse to drive very slowly-two large cars were illegally parked against the kerb instead of in parking-bays.
“Pigs?” Lora said, her voice quavering.
“Not pigs,” Danty said, staring through the glasses. “Security force. Mag', I'm afraid you've lost your home.” “What do you mean?” Sheklov snapped. “I don't know what those security men-if they are security men -I don't know what they're doing in your apartment, but surely you don't mean thatl”
“Don't mean it?” Danty repeated, lowering the binocs now that they had passed the building and it was impossible to see the landing where the men stood guard. “Tell him, Mag' baby.”
She was sitting very still, face white, eyes staring straight ahead. But her hands were folded over so that her nails were deep in her palms.
“He's right,” she said in a dead voice. “Pigs you can take. Once the series hit you, you're done for.”
“Series?” Sheklov echoed, and caught himself, realising that the term stood for “security execs.”
“But this is crazyl” Lora burst out. “Helll You can't just cave in! What about-?” With a snap of her fingers. “Heyl My fatherl He has lots of pulll He'll get 'em off your backs. Just let me get to a phone and tell him what's to be done.”
She was so agitated, she was reaching for the doorhandle.
But Danty had completely ignored the interruption. He was looking solely at Magda.
“Well?” he said. “I'm sorry, you know-more sorry that I can say. Not that that does any good.”
“No.” Magda stirred, as though from a period of deep meditation, and helped herself to another cigarette. “No, it doesn't do any good. All right, the avalanche has begun. I guess I half-expected it. You're in charge.”
The door-bell sounded. Turpin, glad of the interruption, rose from his chair with alacrity.
“Sit downl” Mrs. Gleewood rasped. “You don't have to answer the doorl What do you keep Estelle for?”
“It's Estelle's evening off,” Turpin said with satisfaction. “Sunday, remember? Also Peter is out, Lora is out, and Sophie is drunk. You said so yourself. So unless you propose to go and answer-?”
She glowered at him and then stared firmly at the TV again.
He went to the panel by the door of the living-room where the intercom was, and pressed the answer button to activate the mike.
“Yes, who is it?”
“Is that Mr. Turpin personally?” a cold, strange voice inquired.
“Ah yesl” Butterflies began to perform in Turpin's belly.
“My name is Thorpe, Eric Thorpe. Security force. May I see you for a moment?”
Oh, Christ . . .
But habit made him impervious, on the surface, to even shocks like that one. He said, “Surelyl” In a tone as cheerful as though he really were pleased to be distracted from the company of his mother-in-law. “I'll be with you in just a second.”
Crossing the hall, ignoring the call Mrs. Gleewood hurled after him-wanting to be told who the visitor was-he reviewed a hundred possibilities in ten seconds, and found that he liked none of them. Pray that his hints to Clarke, out at the reserved area, had borne fruit . . .