Counter-Clock World (12 page)

And then, strangely, he found himself contemplating—not his wife but Ann Fisher. The earlier hours, when they had walked the evening streets window-shopping. When they had fiercely besported themselves in bed. I shouldn’t remember that, he realized. That was faked; she had been given a job to do.

But it had proved good, for a time. Before the power-play manifested itself, and the chic, soft exterior ebbed away to reveal the iron.

“An attractive girl, that Library agent,” the robot said, acutely.

“Misleading,” he said gruffly.

“Isn’t it always? You buy the wrappings. It’s always a surprise. I personally found her typical of Library people, attractive and otherwise. Have you decided to let me off, or will you accept F.N.M. currency?”

“I’ll accept it,” he said. It didn’t really matter; the ritual of business, which he had maneuvered through for so many years, meant nothing, now. Considering the greater context.

Maybe I can reach Joe Tinbane by way of the police radio system, he conjectured.
Warn him.
That would be enough; if Joe Tinbane knew that the Library was seeking him he’d do the rest . . . for himself and Lotta. And isn’t that what matters? Not whether I get her back?

He lifted the receiver of his car’s vidphone and dialed the number of Joe Tinbane’s precinct station. “I want to get hold of an Officer Tinbane,” he informed the police switchboard operator, when he had her. “He’s off duty, but this constitutes an emergency; his personal safety is involved.”

“Your name, sir.” The police operator waited.

Food, Sebastian thought. Joe’ll think I’m trying to track him down to retrieve Lotta; he won’t acknowledge my call. So there’s no way I can get through, at least not via the police. “Tell him,” he said to the operator, “that Library agents are out after him. He’ll understand.” He rang off. And wondered bleakly if the message would be conveyed.

“Is he your wife’s paramour?” the robot inquired.

Sebastian, soundlessly, nodded.

“Your concern for him is most Christian,” the robot acknowledged. “You are to be commended.”

Sebastian said curtly, “This is the second calculated risk I’ve taken in less than two days.” Digging up the Anarch in advance of his rebirth had been risky enough; now he gambled that the Library wouldn’t reach out and squash Tinbane and Lotta. It made him ill: he did not possess the mental constitution for such ventures, one right after the other. “He’d do the same for me,” he said.

“Does he have a wife?” the robot asked. “If so, perhaps you could arrange to make her your mistress, while he has Mrs. Hermes.”

“I’m not interested in anyone else. Only Lotta.”

“You found that Library girl exciting. Even though she threatened you.” The robot’s tone was all-knowing. “
We want
the Anarch before you run into her again.
I, at remote, have conferred by phone with His Mightiness Ray Roberts; I am instructed to obtain custody tonight. I am to stay with you rather than meeting His Mightiness.”

Sebastian said, “You think I’m that vulnerable to Ann Fisher?”

“His Mightiness thinks so.”

I wouldn’t be surprised, Sebastian thought unhappily, if His Mightiness were right.

At his conapt he switched on the phone relay; Bob Lindy’s call-back to the vitarium would be switched here. All he had to do was wait. Meanwhile he prepared a quantity of prime sogum from his reserve, extra-special stock, and imbibed it in an effort to raise both his physical energy level and his morale.

“A weird custom,” the robot said, observing him. “Before the Hobart Phase you would never have performed such an act before the eyes of another.”

“You’re only a robot,” he said.

“But a human operator perceives through my sensory apparatus.”

The vidphone rang. So soon? he thought, glancing at his watch. “Goodbye,” he said tensely into the receiver.

On the screen the image formed. It was not Bob Lindy; he faced the negotiator for the interested Rome party, Tony Giacometti. “We followed you to your conapt,” Giacometti said. “Hermes, you are deeply in spiritual debt to us; if it hadn’t been for our stake-out, Miss Fisher would have blown up the Anarch with her bomb.”

“I realize that,” he said.

“In addition,” Giacometti continued, “you would not have known the contents of the two phone calls she made from your vitarium. So we may have saved your wife’s life and possibly yours.”

He repeated, “I realize that.” The Rome buyer had him. “What do you want me to do?” he said.

“We want the Anarch. We know he’s with your technician, Bob Lindy. When Lindy got in touch with you we put a trace on the call; we know where he and the Anarch are. If we wanted to take the Anarch forcibly we could do that, but that’s not the approach we traditionally favor. This purchase must be accomplished on an aboveboard ethical basis; Rome is not the People’s Topical Library nor the Uditi—we do not, under any circumstances, operate as they do. You understand?”

“Yes.” He nodded.

Giacometti said, “Morally, therefore, you are obliged to make your sale to us, rather than to Carl Gantrix. May we send our buyer to your conapt to negotiate the transfer? We can be there in ten minutes.”

“Your method of operation,” he conceded, “is effective.” What else could he do? Giacometti was right. “Send your buyer over,” he said, and hung up.

The robot Carl Junior had observed the conversation and had heard his end. But, oddly, it did not appear perturbed.

“Your Anarch,” Sebastian said to it, “would be dead, now. If they hadn’t—”

“What you’re forgetting,” the robot said patiently, as if explaining to a naive child, “is that the disposition of the Anarch depends on his own preference.
That
is the binding moral obligation. Your solution will be this: suspend the negotiations until your technician phones in, and then inquire of the Anarch as to whom he wishes to be sold.” It concluded confidently, “We are certain that it will be ourselves.”

“Giacometti may not agree,” Sebastian said.

The robot said, “The decision is not his. All right; the Rome people have placed this on an ethical basis; we are delighted. However, our ethical basis is superior to theirs.” It beamed.

Religion, Sebastian thought wearily. More ins and outs, more angles, than ordinary commerce. The casuistry had already gone beyond him; he gave up. “I’ll let you explain it to Giacometti when his buyer arrives,” he said. And imbibed, to fortify himself, an additional ten ounces of sogum.

“The Rome party,” the robot said, “has had centuries more experience than we. Their buyer will be clever. I entreat you to avoid various diverse pitfalls which he may dig for you, as the expression goes.”

“You talk to him,” Sebastian said wearily. “When he gets here. Explain to him what you spelled out to me.”

“Gladly.”

“You feel capable of out-arguing him?”

The robot said, “God is on our side.”

“Is that what you’re going to tell him?”

Pondering, the robot decided, “He would cite apostolic succession. Free will, I believe, is the best argument. Civil law regards an old-born individual as the chattel of the vitarium which revives it. This however is not in accord with theological considerations; a human being cannot be owned, old-born or otherwise, since both possess a soul. I will therefore first establish the fact that the old-born Anarch has a soul, which the Rome buyer will admit, and then deduce from that premise that only the Anarch can dispose of himself, which is our position.” Again it pondered. For quite some time. “His Mightiness, Mr. Roberts,” it declared at last, “agrees with this line of reasoning. I am in touch with him. If the Rome buyer can counter it—which is unlikely—then Mr. Roberts himself, rather than I, Carl Gantrix, will operate Carl Junior; it will become Ray Junior. You can now see that we were prepared for this development from the beginning; for this, His Mightiness, Mr. Roberts, has traveled to the West Coast. He will not return to the F.N.M. empty-handed.”

“I wonder what Ann Fisher is doing,” Sebastian said, brooding.

“The Library is no longer a factor. The conflict as to who is the proper buyer has been reduced to two principals: ourselves and Rome.”

“She won’t give up.” For her it would be impossible. He walked to the window of his living room, gazed out on the dark street below. Often, he and Lotta had done this; every object in the conapt reminded him of her, every object and every spot.

A knock sounded at the living room door.

“Let him in,” Sebastian said to the robot. He seated himself, picked up a cigaret butt from the ashtray, lit it, and prepared to endure the imminent debate.

“Goodbye, Mr. Hermes,” Anthony Giacometti said, entering; he had come himself . . . for the same reasons which had prompted Carl Gantrix to bring in
his
principal. “Goodbye, Gantrix,” he said sourly to the robot.

“Mr. Hermes,” the robot declared, “has asked me to inform you of the position he takes. He is tired and very worried about his wife—so he would rather not attempt to discuss this matter himself.”

To Sebastian and not to the robot, Giacometti said, “What does it mean? We came to an agreement on the phone.”

“Since then,” the robot said, “I have informed him that only the Anarch can promise delivery.”

“Scott versus Tyler,” Giacometti said. “Two years ago, the Superior Court of Contra Costa County, Judge Winslow presiding. The option of disposal of an old-born belongs to the owner of the reviving vitarium, not to his salesman, not to the old-born himself, not to—”

“We have here, however,” the robot interrupted, “a spiritual matter. Not a juridical one. The civil law regarding old-borns is two hundred years out of date. Rome—yourselves—recognizes an old-born as possessing a soul; this is proved by the rite of Supreme Unction conferred when an old-born is severely injured or—”

“The vitarium does not dispose of a soul; it disposes of the soul’s possessor: its body.”

“Negative,” the robot disagreed. “A deader, before the soul reenters it and reanimates it, cannot be dug up by a vitarium. When it is only a body, a corpse of flesh, the vitarium cannot sell or—”

“The Anarch,” Giacometti said, “was illegally dug up before returning to life. The Flask of Hermes Vitarium committed a crime. Under civil law, the Flask of Hermes Vitarium does not in fact own the Anarch. Johnson versus Scruggs, the California Supreme Court, last year.”

“Then who does own the Anarch?” the robot asked, puzzled.

“You claimed,” Giacometti said, and his eyes kindled, “that this is not a juridical matter but a spiritual one.”

“Of course it’s juridical! We need to establish legal ownership before either of us can buy.”

“Then you concede,” Giacometti said quietly, “that Scott versus Tyler is the precedent for this transaction.”

The robot was silent. And then, when it resumed, there was a subtle but real difference in its voice. A deepening into greater power. His Mightiness Mr. Roberts, Sebastian decided, was now operating it; Carl Gantrix had been snared by the argument of the Rome party and hence had been retired. “If the Flask of Hermes Vitarium does not own the old-born Anarch Peak,” it declared, “then according to law the Anarch is ownerless, and holds the same legal status as an old-born who, as occasionally happens, manages to open his own coffin, claw the dirt aside, and exhume himself without external aid. He is then considered the proprietor of himself, and his own opinion as to his disposition is the sole factor obtaining. So we Uditi still maintain that as an ownerless old-born the Anarch alone can legally sell himself, and we are now waiting for his decision.”

“Are you certain you dug up the Anarch too soon?” Giacometti asked Sebastian, cautiously. “Do you actually stipulate that you acted illegally? It would mean a severe fine. I advise you to deny it. If you so stipulate, we’ll refer this to the Los Angeles County District Attorney’s Office.”

Sebastian said woodenly, “I—deny we dug up the Anarch prematurely. There’s no proof that we did.” He was positive of that; only his own crew had been involved, and they wouldn’t testify.

“The real issue,” the robot said, “is spiritual; we must determine and agree on the precise moment at which the soul enters the corpse in the ground. Is it the moment when it is dug up? When its voice is first heard from below, asking for aid? When the first heart beat is recorded? When all brain tissue has formed? In the opinion of Udi the soul enters the corpse when there has been total tissue regeneration, which would be just prior to the first heart action.” To Sebastian he said, “Before you dug the Anarch up, sir, did you detect heart action?”

“Yes,” Sebastian said. “Irregular. But it was there.”

“Then when the Anarch was dug up,” the robot said triumphantly, “he was a person, having a soul; hence—”

The vidphone rang.

“Goodbye,” Sebastian said into the receiver.

This time Bob Lindy’s leathery, tense features formed. “They got him,” he said. He ran his fingers shakily through his hair. “Library agents. So that’s that.”

“You can end your theological argument,” Sebastian said to the robot and Giacometti.

It was unnecessary; the argument had already ended. The living room of his conapt, for the first time in quite a while, was silent.

13

Man is an animal, that is his genus, but man is a
species, reasoning, that is the difference, capable of
laughter, that is his property.

—Boethius

In the small hotel room, Officer Joe Tinbane lounged in such a fashion that he could see outside. In case anyone showed up. His wife, Bethel; Sebastian Hermes; Library commandos—he had to be ready for any and all of them. No combination would have surprised him.

Meanwhile, he read the latest edition of the most lurid ’pape in North America, the
Chicago Monday-Herald.

DRUNKEN FATHER EATS OWN BABY

“You never know how life is going to work out for you,” he said to Lotta. “When you’re either new-born or old-born— I’ll bet this guy never expected he’d wind up this way, a headline in the
Monday-Herald.

“I don’t see how you can read that,” Lotta said nervously; she sat combing her long dark hair, on a chair on the far side of the room.

“Well, as a peace officer I see a lot of this. Not exactly this bad—this one, where this father eats his own baby, is rare.” He turned the page, inspected the headline on page two.

CALIFORNIA LIBRARY KILLS AND KIDNAPS: A LAW UNTO ITSELF, SAFE FROM REPRISAL

“My god,” Tinbane said. “This could be about us; here’s an article on the People’s Topical Library. About it doing what they tried with you—holding you hostage.” He read the article, interested.

How many Los Angeles citizens have disappeared behind the grim gray walls of this forbidding structure? Public authorities make no official estimate, but privately, guesses are running as high as three unexplained disappearances each month. The motives of the Library are not well-understood and are believed to be complex. A desire to erad in advance writings which . . .

“I don’t believe it,” Tinbane said. “They couldn’t get away with it. Take my case, for instance; if anything happened to me my boss, George Gore, would spring me. Or, if I was dead, he’d pay them back.” Thinking about Gore he remembered that Ray Roberts was due any minute now; Gore was probably trying to get hold of him for the special bodyguard detail. “I better call in,” he said to Lotta. “I forgot about all that.”

Using the motel apartment’s vidphone he called Gore.

“A message came in for you,” the police switchboard operator told him, when he identified himself. “Anonymous. Library agents are out after you, he states. Does this mean anything to you?”

“Hell yes,” Tinbane said. To Lotta he said, “Library agents are searching for us.” To the police operator he said, “Let me talk to Mr. Gore.”

“Mr. Gore is at the Los Angeles airport, supervising security precautions for Ray Roberts,” the operator said.

“Tell Mr. Gore when he comes back that if anything happens to me,” Tinbane said, “it was the Library that did it, and if I’m missing to look for me in the Library. And especially if I’m dead, they did it.” He rang off, feeling depressed.

“Do you think they can find us here?” Lotta asked.

“No,” he said. He pondered awhile, and then he rooted through the drawers of the motel room’s dresser until he found the vidphone book; he leafed through it glumly until at last he found Douglas Appleford’s home phone number; several times he had called it in the past, and had usually found Appleford in.

He called that number now.

“Goodbye,” Appleford said presently, appearing on the screen.

“Sorry to bother you at home,” Tinbane said, “but I need your immediate personal help. Can you get hold of your superior, Mrs. McGuire?”

“Possibly,” Appleford said. “In an emergency.”

“I consider this an emergency,” Tinbane said. He explained the situation, as he knew it, to the librarian. “See?” he said in conclusion. “I’m really in a difficult spot; they really have reason to be hostile to me. If they do show up here where I am, somebody’s going to get killed; probably them. I’m in touch with the L.A. police department; as soon as I’m in trouble I’ll be reinforced. My superior, Gore, knows my situation and he’s sympathetic. They have a prowl car—at least one—floating around in the neighborhood, at all times. I just don’t want an incident; I have a lady with me, and on her account I’d prefer to see no violence—as far as I personally am concerned, I couldn’t care less. After all, it’s my job.”

“Where exactly are you?” Appleford asked.

“Oh no,” Tinbane said. “I’d be nuts to tell you that.”

Appleford acknowledged, “I suppose you would.” He, too, pondered; his face was vague. “There’s not much I can do, Joe. I don’t make Library policy; that’s up to the Erads. I can put in a good word for you, tomorrow when I run into Mrs. McGuire.”

“Tomorrow,” Tinbane said, “is too late. In my professional opinion, this is going to come to a head tonight.” After all, virtually every L.A. police officer was tied up guarding Ray Roberts; this would be the ideal time for the Library to pick him off. There most decidedly was
not
a prowl car cruising about overhead, nor would there be one; at least not until he got hold of Gore.

“I can tell them,” Appleford said, “that you’re expecting them. And that of course you’re armed.”

“No, they just would send a bigger team. Tell them to forget it; I regret having had to do what I did—going in there at gunpoint to get Mrs. Hermes out—but I had no option; they were detaining her.”

“Oh, did the Erads do that?” Appleford said, obviously uncomfortable. “Are they still—”

“Tell them,” Tinbane interrupted, deciding, “that I stopped at the police arsenal and picked up a weapon that fires a slug the size of a land mine. And it’s rapid-fire, one of those Skoda lightweight monsters.
I
can operate it openly, because I’m a police officer; I can use any weapon available. But they’ve got to skulk around; they’re severely limited, and tell them I know it. Tell them I’m looking forward to seeing them show up. It’ll be a pleasure. Hello.” He hung up.

Still combing her hair, Lotta said, “Do you really have a gun like that?”

“No,” he said. “I have a pistol.” He whapped his belt holster. “And in the car,” he said, “I have a regulation issue rifle. Maybe I better go get it.” He started toward the door.

“Who do you think the anonymous caller was?” Lotta asked.

“Your husband.” He hobbled out of the motel room, across the sidewalk to the on-street parking lot, and got his rifle from the car.

The night seemed cold and empty, with no life, no activities; he sensed the lack of ominousness. Everybody is at the airport, he thought. Where I ought to be. I’ll probably get hell from Gore for this, he thought. For not having shown up for the bodyguard detail. But that’s the least of my worries, what I’ve done to my career.

He returned to the motel room, locking the door behind him.

“Did you see anyone?” Lotta asked softly.

“Nothing. So relax.” He checked the magazine of the rifle, made sure it held a full clip.

“Maybe you should call Sebastian.”

“Why?” he said irritably. “I got his message. No,” he said, “I don’t feel up to talking directly to him. Because of you; I mean, because of our relationship.” He felt embarrassed. This sort of activity came with difficulty to him. In fact he had never done anything such as this—hiding in a motel room with someone else’s wife—before in his life. He mulled it over, his attention turned inward.

“You’re not ashamed, are you?” Lotta inquired.

“Just—” He gestured. “It’s delicate. I wouldn’t know what to say to him.” He eyed her. “If you want to, you can call him; I’ll listen in.”

“I—still think I’d rather write him.” She had already begun laboriously composing a letter; a paragraph and a half, scrawled across a folded page, lay on the bed, a pen beside it: she had ceased working for the time being. Evidently the task confronting her had been overwhelming.

“Okay,” he said. “You write to him; he’ll get it next week.”

She gazed about unhappily. “Do you have anything to read in your car?” she asked.

“Read this.” He tossed her the
Monday-Herald.

Shrinking away, Lotta said, “Oh no. Not ever.”

“Are you already bored with me?” Tinbane asked, still irritable.

“I always read, about this time in the evening.” She wandered around the room, poking here and there. On the table by the bed she found a Gideon Bible. “I could read this,” she said, reseating herself. “I’ll ask it a question and then open it at random; you can use the Bible that way. I do it all the time.” She concentrated. “I’ll ask it,” she decided, “if the Library is going to get us.” Opening the book, she put her finger, eyes closed, on the top left-hand page. “‘Whither is thy beloved gone, O thou fairest among women?’” she read aloud, studiously. “‘Whither is thy beloved turned aside?’” She glanced up, eyes solemn. “You know what that means? You’re going to be taken away from me.”

“Maybe it means Sebastian,” he said, half-jokingly.

“No.” She shook her head. “I’m in love with you. So it must refer to you.” Once more consulting the book she asked, “Are we in a safe place, here at the motel, or should we hide somewhere else?” Again she opened at random, blindly found a passage. “Psalm 91,” she informed him. “‘He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.’” She reflected. “I guess this is a secret place. So we’re as safe here as anywhere . . . but they’re going to get us, even so. There’s nothing we can do about it.”

“We can shoot our way out,” Tinbane offered.

“Not according to the Book. It’s hopeless.”

Amused, but also indignant at her passivity, he said, “If I had that attitude I’d have been dead years ago.”

“It’s not my attitude; it’s—”

“Sure it’s your attitude. You make it mean what you subconsciously want it to mean. In my opinion, a human being, a man, controls his own fate. Maybe it’s not true about women.”

“I think in connection with the Library,” Lotta said sadly, “it doesn’t make any difference.”

“There is a fundamental difference in the thinking of men versus that of women,” Tinbane declared. “In fact there’s a fundamental difference between various types of women. Consider yourself in comparison to Bethel, my wife. You haven’t met her, but the difference between the two of you is enormous; consider just as an example the way in which you give your love. You do it unconditionally—the man, me in this case, doesn’t have to do anything or be anything in particular. Now, Bethel, on the other hand, demands certain criteria be upheld. In the matter of how I dress, for example. Or how many times I take her out as for instance to a sogum palace three times a week. Or whether I—”

Lotta said, fearfully, “I hear something on the roof.”

“Birds,” he said. “Running across.”

“No. It’s larger.”

He listened. And heard it too. Patter on the roof; someone or something scrambling. Children. “It’s kids,” he said.

“Why?” Lotta said. Now she stared fixedly at the window. “They’re looking in,” she said.

He turned swiftly, saw a pinched little face earnestly pressed to the window of the motel room. “The Library,” he said thickly, “uses them. From its Children’s Department.” He got out his pistol. Going to the door he put his hand on the knob. “I’ll get them,” he said to Lotta. He opened the door.

His shot, aimed too high, aimed at an adult, passed over the head of the tiny child standing there. Adult agents who have dwindled, he realized as he took aim again. Can I kill a child? But it’s going back into a womb anyhow; its time is short. He started to fire again at the four of them darting about outside the motel. . . .

Lotta squalled in a travesty of adult fright, which annoyed him. “Get down!” he yelled at her. One of the small children was aiming a tube at him, and he recognized the weapon: an old wartime laser beam, not intended for domestic matters; its use was denied even the police departments. “Put that thing down,” he said to the child, aiming his gun at the child. “You’re under arrest; you’re not supposed to have one of those.” He wondered if the child knew how to operate it; he wondered—

The laser beam glowed its adequate ruby red, its old intentional color. The beam reached out.

And Tinbane died.

Cowering behind the big double bed of the motel room, Lotta saw the laser beam kill Joe Tinbane; she saw more and more children, a dozen of them, working silently, their faces transfigured with glee. You horrible little creeps, she thought in terror. “I give up, please,” she called to them in a wavering voice not her own. “Okay?” She stood up awkwardly, stumbled against the bed and almost fell. “I’ll come back to the Library; okay?” She waited. And the laser beams did not come on again; the children seemed satisfied: now they were speaking into their intercoms, with their superiors. Telling them what had happened and getting instructions. Oh god, she thought, looking down at Joe Tinbane. I knew they’d do it; he was so sure of himself, and that always means the end. That’s when you’re destroyed.

“Mrs. Hermes?” one of the children piped shrilly.

“Yes,” she said. Why pretend? They knew who she was. They had known who Joe Tinbane was—the man who had attacked the Erads and gotten her out of the Library.

An adult appeared, now. It was the motel man who had rented them the room; he was, she realized, an informer for the Library. The man conferred with the children, then raised his head and beckoned to her.

“How could you shoot him?” she asked, in dazed wonder; she stepped past Joe Tinbane, lingered; maybe she should stay here with him, get shot as he had—maybe that was better than returning to the Library.

The motel man said, “He attacked us. First at the Library and then here. He boasted to Mr. Appleford that he could handle us; it was his declaration.” The man nodded in the direction of a parked VW airbus. “Would you get in, Mrs. Hermes?” On the side of the bus the lettering read: PEOPLE’S TOPICAL LIBRARY. An official, marked bus.

Stumblingly, she got inside; the children, sweaty and breathing excitedly, piled in after her and crowded around her. They did not speak to her, however; they chattered in low, exultant tones among themselves. They were so pleased, she realized. So glad to still be of use to the Library, even in their dwindled state. She hated them.