But Jim intended to go on anyhow. And do what had to be done.
5
As he flew by Jet'ab to Scotty's Place, Jim Briskin thought: At least now I don't have to come out for Lurton Sands; I don't have to follow Sal's advice any more on any topic because if he's not my campaign manager he can't tell me what to do. To some extent it was a relief. But on a deeper level Jim Briskin felt acutely unhappy. I'm going to have trouble getting along without Sal, he realized. I don't want to get along without him.
But it was already done. Sal, with his wife Patricia, had gone on to his home in Cleveland, for a much-delayed rest. And Jim Briskin, with his speechwriter Phil Danville and his press secretary
Dorothy Gill, was on his way in the opposite direction, toward downtown N'York, its tiny shops and restaurants and old, decaying apartment buildings, and all the microscopic, outdated business offices where peculiar and occult transactions continually took place. It was a world which intrigued Jim Briskin, but it was also a world he knew little about; he had been shielded from it most of his life.
Seated beside him, Phil Danville said, 'He may come back, Jim. You know Sal when he gets overburdened; he blows up, falls into fragments. But after a week of lazing around...'
'Not this time,' Jim said. The split was too basic.
'By the way,' Dorothy said, 'before he left, Sal told me who this man you're meeting is. Sal recognized him; did he tell you ? It's Tito Cravelli, Sal says. You know, Myra Sands'
investigator.'
'No,' Jim said. 'I didn't know.' Sal had said nothing to him; the period in which Sal Heim gave him the benefit of his experience was over, had ended there on the spot.
At Republican-Liberal campaign headquarters in N'York he stopped briefly to let off Phil
Danville and Dorothy Grill, and then he went on, alone, to meet with Tito Cravelli at Scotty's
Place.
Cravelli, looking nervous and keyed-up, was already in a booth in the rear of the restaurant, waiting for him, when he arrived.
'Thanks, Mr. Briskin,' Tito Cravelli said, as Jim seated himself across from him. Hurriedly,
Cravelli sipped what remained of his cup of coffee. 'This won't take long. What I want for my information is a great deal. I want a promise from you that when you're elected - and you will be, because of this - you'll bring me in at cabinet rank." He was silent, then.
'Good god,' Jim said mildly. 'Is that all you want ?'
'I'm entitled to it,' Cravelli said. ‘For getting this information to you. I came across it because I
have someone working for me in ...' He broke off abruptly. 'I want the post of Attorney General;
I think I can handle the job ... I think I'd be a good Attorney General. If I'm not, you can fire me.
But you have to let me in for a chance at it'
'Tell me what your information is. I can't make that promise until I hear it.'
Cravelli hesitated. 'Once I tell you - but you're honest, Briskin. Everyone knows that. There's a way you can get rid of the bibs. You can bring them back to activity, full activity.'
'Where ?'
'Not here,' Cravelli said. 'Obviously. Not on Earth. The man I have working for me who picked this up is an employee of Terran Development. What does that suggest to you ?'
After a pause Jim Briskin said, 'They've made a breakthrough.'
'A little firm has. A retailer in Kansas City, repairing a defective Jiffi-scuttler. They did it - or rather found it. Discovered it. The 'scuttler's at TD, now, being gone over by factory engineers. It was moved east two hours ago; they acted immediately, as soon as the retailer contacted them.
They knew what it meant.' He added, 'Just as you and I do, and my man working for them.'
'Where's the break-through to ? What time period ?'
'No time period, evidently. The conversion seems to have taken place in spacial terms, as near as they can determine. A planet with about the same mass as Earth, similar atmosphere, welldeveloped fauna and flora, but not Earth - they managed to snap a sky-chart, get a stellar reading.
Within another few hours they'll probably have plotted lit exactly, know which star-system it lies in. Apparently it's a long, long way from here. Too far for direct deeps-ace ships to probe - at least for some time to come. This break-through, this direct shorted-out route, will have to be utilized for at least the next few decades.'
The waitress, came for Jim's order.
'Perkin's Syn-Cof,' he murmured absently.
The waitress departed.
'Cally Gale's there,' Tito Cravelli said.
'What!'
'Doctor put her across. That's why my man got in touch with me; as you may know, I've been retained to search for Cally, trying to produce her on demand for the trial. It's a mess; she lasered an employee of this Kansas City retailer, its one and only tried and true 'scuttler repairman. He had gone across, exploring. Too bad for him. But in the great scheme of all things...'
'Yes,' Jim Briskin agreed. Cravelli was right; it was small cost indeed. With so many millions of lives - and, potentially, billions - involved.
'Naturally TD has declared this top-secret. They've thrown up an enormous security screen; I was lucky to get hold of the poop at all. If I hadn't already had a man in there ...' Cravelli gestured.
'I'll name you to the cabinet,' Jim Briskin said. 'As Attorney General. The arrangement doesn't please me, but I think it's in order.' It's worth it, he said to himself. A hundred times over. To me and to everyone else on Earth, bibs and non-bibs alike. To all of us.
Sagging with relief and exultation,, Tito Cravelli burbled, 'Wow. I can't believe it; this is great!'
He held out his hand, but Jim ignored it; he had too much else on his mind at the moment to want to congratulate Tito Cravelli.
Jim thought, Sal Heim got out a little too soon. He should have stuck around. So much for Sal's political intuition; at the crucial moment it had failed to materialize for him.
Seated in her office, abort-consultant Myra Sands once more leafed through Tito's brief report.
But already, outside her window, a news machine for one of the major homeopapes was screeching out the news that Cally Vale had been found; it had been made public by the police.
I didn't think you could do it, Tito, Myra said to herself. Well, I was wrong. You were worth your fee, large as it is.
It will be quite a trial, she said to herself with relish.
From a nearby office, probably the brokerage firm next door, the amplified sound of a man's voice rose up and then was turned down to a more reasonable level. Someone had tuned in the
TV, was watching the Republican-Liberal presidential candidate giving his latest speech.
Perhaps I should listen, too, she decided, and reached to turn on the TV set at her desk.
The set warmed, and there, on the screen, appeared the dark, intense features of Jim Briskin. She swiveled her chair toward the set and momentarily put aside Tito's report. After all, anything
James Briskin said had become important; he might easily be their next president.
'... an initial action on my part,' Briskin was saying, 'and one which many may disapprove of, but one dear to my heart, will be to initiate legal action against the so-called Golden Door Moments of Bliss satellite. I've thought about this topic for some time; this is not a snap decision on my part. But, much more vital than that, I think we will see the Golden Door satellite become thoroughly obsolete. That would be best of all. The role of sexuality in our society could return to its biological norm: as a means to childbirth rather than an end in itself.'
Oh, really ? Myra thought archly. Exactly how ?
'I am about to give you a piece of news which none of you have heard,' Briskin continued. 'It will make a vast difference in all our lives ... so great, in fact, that no one could possibly foresee its full extent at this time, A new possibility for emigration is about to open up at last. At Terran