“That’s fine with me,” Bunker said.
“I’ll give them New York. If they have the good sense to come here, they should see us at our most confusing.”
“We have an added starter.” He put his head back against the back of his chair. His glance flicked toward Paula. “Has either of you ever heard of the Sunlight League?”
Paula turned her gaze toward Jefferson. The old woman said, “A political club, isn’t it? Fairly recent.”
“An anti-Styth political club,” Bunker said. “With some important members. Martian, I think, most of them. Also anti-Committee.”
“Naturally,” Jefferson said. “Where did you hear about the Sunlight League?”
Bunker flicked at the papers in front of him with his finger. “Around.”
“When?”
“A while ago.”
Paula said, angry, “Four months ago. In Los Angeles. When he broke into that smuggler’s shop. Isn’t that right?”
He never even looked at her; he said to Jefferson, “Any time, Sybil.”
“I don’t like to see you taking candy from babies,” Jefferson said.
“You lied to me.” Paula’s cheeks burned hot. She pushed her chair back loudly from the table. “You told me you didn’t find anything there.”
“Tsk,” Bunker said. “I have another meeting. Is there anything else important?”
Jefferson groped in her purse. Paula stared at the far wall. After a moment the man across the table from her rose, closed his papercase, and went out.
“Damn him,” Paula said. “I feel like a fool.”
“You look like one,” Jefferson said. “Have a mint.”
The commune bath was filthy. On Paula’s day off, she took off her clothes, filled a bucket with soapy water and ammonia, and started to scrub the walls of the shower room. Turning on the nearest shower, she twisted the head around to rinse off the section of tile she had cleaned.
“Do you mind if I wash?”
She plunged her arm into the bucket, holding her nose against the ammonia. “Just stay in the end I haven’t done yet.”
The young man stood at the last spigot, soaping himself in the spray. “It’s about time somebody cleaned up in here.” Paula glanced at his brown back. She hardly knew him; he lived in the other hall. The faucets and showerheads were rough with scale. She stood scrubbing at them with all her strength.
“Aren’t you on the Committee?”
“Yes.”
He turned in the shower. The soap washed white down his body. “I just lost my job.”
There were a lot of people out of work. She picked at the grit on the faucet. Stay out of this. “That’s too bad.”
“Charmichael has laid about fifty people off in the past week.”
“Charmichael? The Moneyer?” She glanced at him, interested. Stooping, she dunked the brush into the bucket. The shower behind her was on full heat. The steam billowed around her. Her skin was pebbled with condensation although she was nowhere near the water.
“What did you do?” she asked.
“Media analyst.”
Which was a fancy name for file clerk. She stood and washed the wall. “Did they offer to retrain you?”
He turned off his shower. “Just a second, while I get a towel.” He went out to the next room. Paula washed grime off the wall. Where she had scrubbed, the white wall shone like china.
“I’m sorry.” The man from Charmichael Money & Credit spread his hands. His face was cheerful as a sun. “We aren’t retraining anybody any more. It’s too expensive. We have statistics to prove it.”
“Oh, god, don’t rain numbers on me.” She swiveled her chair back and forth. The dogwood was losing its leaves. She studied the man from Charmichael, who smiled back at her.
“Andressen,” she said. “Richard Bunker is bringing an action against you for double-billing. How would you like a copy of his file on you?”
The man’s smile broadened by six teeth. “Very much.”
“Enough to retain my clients?”
“Yes.”
“At full pay.”
“At half pay. You’re talking about fifty-two people, Mendoza.”
She nodded. “I accept.” She opened her desk drawer and took out three thick file folders and a paper for him to sign.
The dogwood tree was completely bare. She pruned off the dead branches and raked up the leaves. She saw nothing of Tony, not even a call. There had been no more incidents with the Styths since the raid on Vesta. Jefferson went to Crosby’s Planet, where the Council met. Thomas Overwood called from Los Angeles. He had information for Paula, and he had found a Styth living on the Earth.
The Styth was somewhere in Alm’ata, in Central Asia. Overwood soured when she pushed him for an address. “I found his dome for you, isn’t that enough?” Reluctantly she called Dick Bunker, who went to Alm’ata, while she took the tube across the continent to Los Angeles.
Overwood gave her a thin paper pamphlet. The title on the cover was The Mutant Menace. She held it under the light and turned the pages. “This is propaganda. This is no good.” On the last page was printed THE SUNLIGHT LEAGUE.
The shopman looked disappointed. He would not say how he had gotten it. She gave him two hundred dollars, took the pamphlet, and went by rocket to Alm’ata.
In flight over the ocean, she read through the booklet. It was a collection of fact and lie and mixtures of the two, all written like slanders. The print was perfect, an expensive production, on high-quality paper. Near the end was a piece of thinner paper, folded in half and stuck into the binding. She worked it loose.
It read:
Merkhiz SIF 4 Ebelos
Matuko SIF 6 Ybix Vesta
(Saba)
Lopka SIF 13 Kundra Vesta
Merkhiz and Matuko were cities of the Empire; saba meant “he knows.” Ebelos was a grade of crystal. She turned the paper over. There was nothing else. SIF looked like an acronym. Styth Imperial. Styth Imperial Fleet. She bounced up and down in her seat. The old man across the aisle gave her a look of disapproval. She spread the paper flat on her knee. Then Ebelos, Ybix, and Kundra could be the names of ships.
The rocket was descending. She folded the paper and put it in her pocket. Below, through the little window like a gun-slot in the wall, she saw the crumpled surface of the Great Asian Lake. Alm’ata was the Earth’s primary surface harbor; the long narrow dome, open at both ends, enclosed half the water. Her seat faced the back. She twisted around to watch the approach. The floor thumped under her feet. The secondary engines had come on. The jet skimmed over the surface of the lake. Scum rolled in patches on the water. Greenish threads of pollution trailed by the window. The flared round tunnel of the dome swept up around them. Abruptly the air was clear, the water sparkled and broke in white curls of foam. The rocket circled once and set down on the spiral runway.
Bunker was not at the terminal to meet her. She seethed all the way down the ramp. Outside, she put down her bag and put on her jacket. The air was icy cold. She walked across the city park, asking directions here and there. Little children in brilliant orange coats raced in a game under the bare trees. She came to the Lenin Hotel, an old-fashioned above-ground building in an orchard of fruit trees leafless in the winter cold.
When she let herself into the hotel room, Bunker was lying naked on his back on the couch under the vitamin lamp, a tape plug in his ear, wet balls of cotton on his eyes, and a pink napkin tented over his crotch. Paula shut the door. He did not move.