It had always been his hope, his masochistic plea, that Mavis and the Council would dispatch Ann to do a hatchet job on _him_.
In this situation, with Sebastian Hermes married, Ann would be especially efficient; her specialty was entering a man-woman relationship as a third party, eventually driving out the wife--or mistress; whatever--and reducing the number of players to two: herself and the man.
Lots of luck, Mr. Hermes, he thought wryly. And then he thought of timid little Mrs. Hermes subjected to the explorations of an Erad, and that made him uncomfortable.
After the interrogation, Lotta Hermes would be different. He wondered which way: for the good or for the worse. The interrogation would either make her or destroy her; it could go in either direction.
He hoped for the former; he had liked the girl.
But his hands were tied.
9
God does not know things because they are: they are because He knows them, and His knowledge of them is their essence.
--Erigena
Officer Joe Tinbane ruminated, I certainly made a horse's mouth of myself. I've ruined my friendship with the Hermeses, and because of me she had to go back to the Library. It's my moral burden, whatever happens to her; it's on my conscience, until birth.
A lot of times, he reflected, when a person has a phobia about a particular place or situation, there's a valid reason. It's a form of precognition. If Lotta's that afraid of going there, then she probably has reason to be. Those Erads, he said to himself. Mysterious; who and what are they? The Los Angeles Police Department doesn't know; _I_ don't know.
He was home, now, with Bethel. And, as usual, she was giving him a hard time.
"You're not taking any interest in your sogum," Bethel said fiercely.
"I'm going off," he announced, "and disgorge. Where I can be alone and think."
"Oh? I interfere with your thoughts? Who are they about?"
He said, stung by her tone, "Okay; if you want to know, I'll tell you."
"Another woman."
"Right." He nodded. "One whom I could love."
"You once said you could never love anyone in the way you loved me; that every other relationship--"
"That was then." Too many years had passed; talk could not revive a moribund marriage. Why should I be married--stay married--to someone who doesn't basically respect me or like me? he asked himself. The dreary years, passing... the accusations. Rising to his feet, he detached himself from his sogum pipe. "I may have killed her," he said. "I take responsibility." I have to get her out of the Library, he said to himself.
"You're off to visit her now," Bethel said. "Without even trying to conceal this--illicit relationship from me, your wife. I took our marriage vows seriously, but you've never tried; if we can't work things out it's because you haven't tried or been responsible. And now you're openly, blatantly, running off to her. Go ahead."
"Hello," he said; the conapt door shut after him and he was out in the hall, hurrying toward his parked, unmarked prowl car. Should I go this way? he wondered. Out of uniform? No. He ran back to the door of their conapt--and found it locked.
"Don't try to come back," Bethel said. "I'm getting a divorce." Even through the heavy servofome door her voice was clear. "As far as I'm concerned you don't live here."
"I want," he grated, "my uniform."
There was no response. The door stayed shut.
In his prowl car on the roof parking lot he kept a spare doorkey; once more he raced toward the ascent runnel. She can't come between me and my uniform, he declared to himself. That's illegal. Reaching his car he fumbled in the glove compartment. Aw, the hell with it; he got in behind the wheel, started up the engine. As long as I have my gun, he said to himself; he tugged it from his shoulder holster, checked to be sure all twelve chambers were loaded--except the one against which the half-cocked firing pin potentially rested--and then zoomed off into the early evening Los Angeles sky.
Five minutes later he landed on the deserted--or rather almost deserted--roof parting lot of the People's Topical Library. Expertly, he flashed his light into each of the parked aircars. All belonged to Erads, except one registered to Mavis McGuire. So he knew who he could expect to find in the Library besides Lotta Hermes: a gang of at least three Erads and the Chief Librarian.
He quickly reached the roof entrance of the Library, and found it locked. Well, he thought, naturally; it's after hours. But I know she's in there, he thought, even if her car isn't parked up here; she probably came by taxi. Probably she was afraid to drive.
From the trunk of his prowl car he got a lock-analyzer, carried it by its worn leather strap-it had seen a good deal of service--to the Library door. Set in motion, the analyzer probed the lock, listened, then developed a proper tumbler-lift pattern; the door swung open, unlocked, with no damage done to it, no proof that it had been forced.
He returned the luck-analyzer to the car's trunk; then, pausing, inspected the mass of gear which he habitually carted about; what else might help him? Riot gas? Its use could be reported to his superiors in the department; he'd he in trouble. Cephalic-wave detection apparatus, he decided; it'll tell me how many people are in the vicinity and it'll plot their paths. I'll know who's converging on me and from where. So he took the cephalic-wave detector, snapped it on and set it for minimum range; at once the sweep of its scope-screen displayed five distinct dots, five human brains at work within yards from him. probably on the top floor of the Library. He then set the detector for maximum range, and now made out seven dots; so in all, he had six Library officials to cope with, plus Lotta Hermes, whom he assumed to be one of the dots.
He assumed she was still alive, as well as still in the Library.
However, before he entered the Library by its now unlocked roof door, he seated himself in the front of his prowl car, picked up the vidphone receiver, and dialed the number of the Flask of Hermes Vitarium; he had that number clear in his mind, now.
"Flask of Hermes Vitarium," R.C. Buckley said, appearing in cameo on the vidphone screen.
"I'd like to talk to Lotta," Tinbane said.
"Let me check." Buckley disappeared briefly, then returned. "Seb says she hasn't come back from the Library. He sent her there to do some research for him--just a second; here's Seb."
Now the somber, intelligent features of Sebastian Hermes appeared on the screen. "No, she hasn't come back, and I'm really worried. I'm beginning to regret that I sent her; maybe I ought to call the Library and ask about her."
"You'd be wasting your time," Tinbane said. "I'm at the Library now, parked on the roof. I know she's in there. The Library is locked up, but that's no problem; I have my prowl car and gear with me; in fact I've already retired the lock. I'm just wondering if I ought to give them a chance to voluntarily release her."
"_Release_ her," Seb echoed, and blanched. "It sounds like you think they're holding her."
"I know," he said, "that at closing time they didn't throw her out." He had an absolute intuition about that; his near-psionic faculty in that direction had made him the good police officer that he was. "She's still in there, and being held; she wouldn't stay unless they detained her."
"I'll vidphone them," Sebastian said hollowly.
"And say what?"
"And say I want my wife back!"
"Okay," Tinbane said, "you do that." He gave Sebastian the extension number of his prowl car's phone. "And then you call me back and tell me what they said." He continued fixedly to watch the screen of the cephalic-wave detector; it continued to indicate seven brains in the vicinity, moving about slightly; the location of the dots on the screen underwent continual minute relocations. They'll tell you that she was there, he said to himself, and that she left. She never got there at all; maybe they'll say that. And they know nothing. Noli me tangere, he thought; that's what the Library says about itself. Warning: don't meddle with me. Touch me not. The bastards, he said to himself.