"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.