But Giessen had clearly been moved by the boy’s words. There was a mystical streak in Giessen that, in its balancing counterpoint to his punctilio and pragmatism, was very German.
Giessen—The Thirst—stood, and said, “I… I feel ashamed that I have done so little. While Rick Crandall is on Retreat, we must do his work.”
“God’s Work,” Jebediah said.
Giessen nodded. “Yes. God’s work.” He smoothed down his coat jacket, tugged his tie into proper position and checked his watch. All signs he was about to launch into some sort of activity. “Truly God’s work. There are prisoners I have not interrogated. I will remedy this now. One of them, I feel, will lead me to the animal they call Hard-Eyes Torrence.”
He went briskly to the door, purposeful as the swish of a knife blade.
When—a week after his first visit—Steinfeld was brought back into Badoit’s office he had the feeling the meeting was continuing as if it had never been interrupted by his arrest. It was about the same time of day, the tea cart was there, Badoit wore more or less the same suit, and the same expression of friendly detachment.
“Please sit down, my friend,” Badoit said. “I would like first to apologize for keeping you in ‘house arrest.’ We informed your people you would be delayed in returning, but I am sure it was a great inconvenience to you.”
Steinfeld shrugged, and sat in the same seat he’d occupied before. “More like a vacation. I had a spa, movies, TV, a comfortable apartment, good food, and access to a swimming pool. And a masseuse.”
“And then there was the indignity of subjecting your mind to an extractor search…”
“It’s a painless process. I’d have done it voluntarily. I didn’t mind. Because—I was prepared to open my mind, my heart to you, Shaikh Badoit.”
Badoit smiled thinly as he poured coffee for them. “You are the very soul of politesse. Very welclass="underline" I take it you have forgiven me. Let us put it aside. You passed the extractor test with flying colors. The extractor insists that you are quite sincere.” He grinned, brief and bright as a flashbulb pop. “And not at all bent on sabotaging my organization from within. Some of my advisers had thought… well, no matter. The other investigations into your background confirmed everything you told me. You are really quite an honest man for a former Mossad agent.”
“I am not a Mossad agent,” Steinfeld said. He shrugged. “Hard as that may be to believe. I do some work in association with them. I am merely an antifascist organizer.”
“Ah.” He didn’t sound convinced. “You mentioned the television.” He passed Steinfeld coffee and a scone. “Did you see, on that television—about Damascus?”
“The announcement from the Reverend Crandall? The so-called Damascus Scrolls. Yes. Astounding. And this business about Mohammed—the gall of these people amazes me. They have made a great mistake. They’ve become overconfident. Arrogant. And stupid. They think the rest of the world is even stupider, apparently.”
“Precisely correct: they have made a great mistake in this fabrication. And they make a mistake to malign the Prophet. They pushed me into commitment, my friend. You will have your freedom, and the help you require—up to a point.”
“Up to which point, Shaikh Badoit?”
“To begin with, up to about four-hundred-thirty million in world currency, to fund your resistance organization. Or you may have it in securities, gold bullion, or bank transfer to any account you name.” He sipped coffee. “Later I hope to double that amount.”
Russ Parker and Claire Rimpler stood on the podium platform under the inverted cradle of the sky—that was also the ground, if you walked far enough—and waited for the dedication to get under way.
The temporary platform was made of pressed recycled paper—the artificial-cellulose pulp they used for the printout clothing they wore—and it quaked a little under Lester’s rather heavy tread as he crossed to them, shook their hands for the Colony TV station’s cameras, and then went to the grass-blade-thin microphone taped to the podium. He spoke to the technicki crowd in Technicki argot; telling them that it was partly through Claire and Parker’s efforts that the new technicki-staff housing project had been completed in the Space Colony’s Open; that Parker had saved his life; that Claire Rimpler was a person who understood workers, who cared about them. That the housing here in the Colony’s Open—the parklike space in the Bernal Sphere that held the inside-out biosphere, complete with fresh air and sunlight and beneficial fauna—was a symbol of the new respect Colony Administration had for workers on every level.
Parker didn’t understand Technicki well, couldn’t make out most of it. He heard his own named mixed in with a mush bowl of consonants and vowels, each sentence sounding to Parker like one long word. Parker felt embarrassed, knowing he was being praised, but happy, knowing something had been achieved. And he felt close to Claire just now.
Sometimes she intimidated him. She had come back from Earth with a real edge to her. She’d seen things there that had hardened her, sharpened her. But when she was happy, the woman shone out of her like Texas starlight, and man, he just wanted to…
You too damn old for her, Rusty, he told himself.
When Lester was done, Claire nudged Parker, and he went awkwardly to the mike, wincing at the paper noise as he unfolded his notes, read out his short speech in Standard. Claire, the show-off, did hers in Technicki. They cut the ribbon, strolled through the multidwelling units to drink punch at the reception in the project’s Community Center.
Claire and Parker stood together, chatting with Lester’s wife, Kitty; Lester strolled over and Claire muttered, “Uh-oh. He’s got that rhetoric look in his eye.” Kitty chuckled; Parker inwardly groaned.
“You know,” Lester said, pinning Parker with his challenging stare, “we got some momentum going here, zeal for reform and all that, Maybe we should use it, keep going. Reform the economic infrastructure of the Colony.”
“Lester,” said Parker, “do you really think that if you put it up to a popular vote people’d vote for a socialist state in the Colony? Come on. Most technickis are more or less of Democratic Party persuasion, not radicals.”
“Especially in light of the changes lately,” Claire said. “Things are working for them as is.”
“No,” Lester said. “Things are easing for them. That doesn’t mean that things are really fair. There’s still a class structure here; there’s still under-representation; there’s still salary inequities. Admin’s not treating them like indentured servants anymore—more like… like ordinary servants with a ‘liberal’ employer.”
“Reform’s ongoing,” Claire said. “I’d like to see it go farther—Maybe we do need some kind of Democratic-Socialist structure. In a moderate kind of way. I think your health care should be completely subsidized and not come out of your paycheck; I think housing should be more broadly subsidized. But socialism per se is just too archaic for this kind of environment, Lester.”
“Socialism isn’t archaic any more than the principles of engineering are archaic—they get refined as people learn how to build things better, but the basic principles…”
It went on like that for a while, ending with everyone agreeing to think about it. Lester didn’t seem angry that they hadn’t jumped on his bandwagon, but he could be pretty inscrutable; it was hard to tell for sure.
After Lester’s wife rescued them, dragging him off to help her with the baby, Claire said, “I’ve had enough politics for one day. Feel like taking a walk, Russ?”