There was a sudden hammering on the door and Belicher's complaining voice could be heard outside. Shirl finally realized the significance of Tab's presence, and she gasped. "You're here because you're helping them," she said. "They found out that Sol is dead and they want this room."
Tab could only nod mutely.
"There's still a way out," Andy said. "If we had one of the men here from my precinct living in here, then those people couldn't get in."
The knocking was louder and Tab took a half-step backwards toward the door. "If there was somebody here now, that would be okay, but Belicher could probably take the thing to squat court and get occupancy anyway because he has a family. I'll do whatever I can to help you — but Belicher, he's still my employer."
"Don't open that door," Andy said sharply. "Not until we have this straightened out."
"I have to — what else can I do?" He straightened up and closed his fist with hard knuckles on it. "Don't try to stop me, Andy. You're a policeman, you know the law about this."
"Tab, must you?" Shirl asked in a low voice.
He turned to her, eyes filled with unhappiness. "We were good friends once, Shirl, and that's the way I'm going to remember it. But you're not going to think much of me after this because I have to do my job. I have to let them in."
"Go ahead, open the damn door," Andy said bitterly, turning his back and walking over to the window.
The Belichers swarmed in. Mr. Belicher was thin, with a strangely shaped head, almost no chin and just enough intelligence to sign his name to a Welfare application. Mrs. Belicher was the support of the family, — from the flabby fat of her body came the children, all seven of them, to swell the Relief allotment on which they survived. Number 8 was pushing an extra bulge out of the dough of her flesh; it was really number 11 since three of the younger Belichers had perished through indifference or accident. The largest girl, she must have been all of twelve, was carrying the sore-covered infant which stank abominably and cried continuously. The other children shouted at each other now, released from the silence and tension of the dark hall.
"Oh looka the nice fridge," Mrs. Belicher said, waddling over and opening the door.
"Don't touch that.” Andy said, and Belicher pulled him by the arm.
"I like this room — it's not big you know, but nice. What's in here?" He started toward the door in the partition.
"That's my room," Andy said, slamming it shut in his face. "Just keep out of there."
"No need to act like that," Belicher said, sidling away quickly like a dog that has been kicked too often. "I got my rights. The law says I can look wherever I want with a squat-order." He moved farther away as Andy took a step toward him. "Not that I'm doubting your word, mister, I believe you. This room here is fine, got a good table, chairs, bed…"
"Those things belong to me. This is an empty room, and a small one at that. It's not big enough for you and all your family."
"It's big enough. We lived in smaller—"
"Andy — stop them! Look—" Shirl's unhappy cry spun Andy around and he saw that two of the boys had found the packets of herbs that Sol had grown so carefully in his window box, and were tearing them open, thinking that it was food of some kind.
"Put those things down," he shouted, but before he could reach them they had tasted the herbs, then spat them out.
"Burn my mouth!" the bigger boy screamed and sprayed the contents of the packet on the floor. The other boy bounced up and down with excitement and began to do the same thing with the rest of the herbs. They twisted away from Andy and before he could stop them the packets were empty.
As soon as Andy turned away, the younger boy, still excited, climbed on the table — his mud-stained foot wrappings leaving filthy smears — and turned up the TV. Blaring music crashed over the screams of the children and the ineffectual calls of their mother. Tab pulled Belicher away as he opened the wardrobe to see what was inside.
"Get these kids out of here," Andy said, white-faced with rage.
"I got a squat-order, I got rights," Belicher shouted, backing away and waving an imprinted square of plastic.
"I don't care what rights you have," Andy told him, opening the hall door. "We'll talk about that when these brats are outside."
Tab settled it by grabbing the nearest child by the scruff of the neck and pushing it out through the door. "Mr. Rusch is right," he said. "The kids can wait outside while we settle this."
Mrs. Belicher sat down heavily on the bed and closed her eyes, as though all this had nothing to do with her. Mr. Belicher retreated against the wall saying something that no one heard or bothered to listen to. There were some shrill cries and angry sobbing from the hall and the last child was expelled.
Andy looked around and realized that Shirl had gone into their room; he heard the key turn in the lock. "I suppose this is it?" he said, looking steadily at Tab.
The bodyguard shrugged helplessly. "I'm sorry, Andy, honest to God I am. What else can I do? It's the law, and if they want to stay here you can't get them out."
"It's the law, it's the law," Belicher echoed tonelessly.
There was nothing Andy could do with his clenched fists and he had to force himself to open them. "Help me carry these things into the other room, will you, Tab?"
"Sure," Tab said, and took the other end of the table. "Try and explain to Shirl about my part in this, will you? I don't think she understands that it's just a job I have to do."
Their footsteps crackled on the dried herbs and seeds that littered the floor and Andy did not answer him.
The Pliable Animal
Man is a pliable animal,
a being who gets accustomed to everything.
— Feodor Dostoyevsky
Commander Rissby was squat and square, planted solidly behind the desk-as if he had been grown there. He gave an impression of strength and determination — which was true — and of slowness and stupidity— which was completely false. He looked particularly bovine at this moment, scratching his close-cropped gray hair with one thick finger and blinking slowly while he talked.
"If I knew what you were looking for, Honorable Sir Petion, maybe then I could be of more help. .?"
The thin albino sitting opposite snapped his answer, cutting through the tentative advance of the Commander's words. "What I'm doing here is my business — not yours. You will help me and you won't ask questions. At the proper time you will be informed. Not before. In the meantime you will be able to assist me. First thing— can you get me into the palace without arousing any suspicion as to why I am here?"
The Honorable Sir Jorge Suvarov Petion didn't really enjoy throwing his weight around. But it had to be done. It was one of the uncomfortable things that occurred in his line of duty — like looking at violently battered corpses. With other men he acted differently. He spoke to Commander Rissby in this manner not from malice but from previous knowledge. It was the only way one could get along with the stolid, unimaginative men of Tacora. They made the most loyal soldiers the Empire had — if you took into consideration their grim fixation with status. Speaking as he had, Petion established his superiority of person as well as of rank. His relationship with the Commander and his soldiers would now be a good one.
Truthfully, Commander Rissby was not insulted by the reprimand. He had questioned the other's authority and now knew where they both stood. The white-haired man across from him was one of those who held the Empire together. It would be a pleasure to take orders from him. He wasn't one of those pink-eyed social parasites who grew fat off the work of others. At the appropriate moment Sir Jorge would tell his reasons for being here. Meanwhile, the Commander could be patient.